Page 19 of Captured By the Bratva

I’m glad to be out of the dress. I hate it. I hate how good I feel in it, how revealing it is, how it caught his eye, how it was just one of several in that wardrobe, all in my size.

I step into the tub, letting the water embrace me. It’s almost too much—too hot, too deep, too perfect—and I sink slowly, letting myself feel the luxurious warmth surrounding me, wondering if I’ll ever fully adjust to this world that seems to belong entirely to him.

My thoughts drift to him as I settle back, my eyes slipping closed. I can still see him from earlier tonight, seated across from me, so controlled, so certain. I hate how he looked at me, how he seemed to read my every thought, like he knew I’d try to escape and was daring me to try.

I can’t help comparing him to Jimmy. The thought is bitter, dark, and yet I linger on it, recalling Jimmy’s thinly veiled disdain, the way he barely even looked at me, like I was an afterthought, something to be tolerated.

I think of Ivan in his place, and the image sharpens, intensifies. Ivan wouldn’t tolerate someone like Jimmy; he’d look at him the way he looked at me tonight, with that dangerous focus, that knowing intensity.

I can almost see it now—Ivan finding Jimmy, breaking his neck without a second thought. And something about that thought makes my skin heat in a way that I can’t ignore.

I sink lower into the water, the steam thick around me, and imagine Ivan walking in, his presence dark and commanding as he closes the door. He would pause, take in the room, his eyes darkening as he looks at me, a faint smile on his lips.

I imagine the slow, deliberate way he would unbutton his suit jacket, his fingers precise, controlled, as he peels away each layer, revealing more of himself, piece by piece.

I see him sliding the jacket off his broad shoulders, his shirt clinging to his chest, and I can almost feel the weight of his gaze, burning through the steam, claiming me in a way that Jimmy never could.

My hand trails along my collarbone, a soft, tentative touch, as I imagine him closing the distance, stepping into the tub behind me, his hands settling on my shoulders, firm and possessive.

I let my fingers drift lower, tracing the line of my throat, as I picture his lips there, warm and unyielding, a shiver spreading through me. I close my eyes tighter, letting the fantasy take over, letting it fill me completely.

My hands mimic his, skimming along my arms, across my chest, each touch making my skin feel more alive, more sensitive. I picture him lowering himself into the water, the heat intensifying, his body pressed against mine.

I feel the strength in him, the quiet power as his hands explore me, his mouth warm against my neck. His whispers come to me in Russian, the words rough and low, rolling off his tongue with a familiarity that feels forbidden, exhilarating.

I understand nothing he says but I know exactly what he’s telling me. He wants me. I can’t lie. It feels good to be wanted for once.

I can’t stop now, my hands slipping lower, moving in slow circles over my clit, each movement drawing me deeper into the feeling of him.

I imagine his hands there, guiding me, controlling me, his fingers firm, his breath ragged as he ravages me.

My body reacts, my hips shifting, my breath hitching as I reach the point of no return, unable to hold back the tidal wave of sensation building within me.

The world narrows, my senses overtaken by the warmth, the pleasure, the feeling of him. And as the climax crashes over me, I gasp his name, the sound spilling from my lips before I can stop it. “Ivan…”

The word hangs in the air, echoing softly, its weight sinking into the silence. My eyes open slowly, the room still hazy, my pulse racing as I come back to myself, the realization of what I’ve done settling heavily in my chest.

My face burns with shame, the sound of his name still lingering, reminding me of how deeply he’s rooted himself in my mind.

I force myself to rise from the bath, wrapping myself in the soft towel, but I’m still breathless, my body alive with the aftermath of my fantasy. I step out, my legs shaky, the air cool against my damp skin as I tighten the towel around me.

Wrapped tightly in a towel, I open the door to my bedroom, hoping for solitude but finding Ivan waiting, his presence filling the space. He stands by the bed, peeling off his shirt, his movements controlled, unhurried, as though he’s completely at ease being here, in my room, with me.

The room feels smaller with him in it, the shadows deepened by his presence, the silver moonlight casting a faint glow over his skin, highlighting the scars and tattoos that mark his chest and arms.

I try to keep my face neutral, to hide the thrill that prickles through me as I take in the sight of him. He’s more powerful, more dangerous than I realized, his body carved from years of battle and strength, every scar a story I can only imagine.

He pauses, catching me in his gaze, his eyes traveling over me, lingering on the towel wrapped around me, his stare dark and intense.

“You’re not sleeping in here,” I say. I want him to go, to leave me in peace, but another part of me—the part I hate—wants himto stay, to keep looking at me that way, like I’m something he’s already claimed.

A faint smile touches his lips, as if my words amuse him. “You still don’t get it, do you?” His voice is soft, but there’s a weight to it, an unspoken promise. He takes a step closer, and I can feel the air shift, charged with something I can’t ignore.

My instincts scream at me to resist, to keep my distance, but I can’t move, can’t tear my gaze away from him.

His hand reaches out, fingers brushing the bare skin of my arm, and the touch is electric, sending a shiver through me that I can’t control.

His fingers linger, his gaze still holding mine. For the first time, I feel wanted in a way I never felt with Jimmy, who always looked at me with a thinly veiled disgust, as if I was a duty, an inconvenience.

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