Page 60 of Captured By the Bratva

He released my hand. “Yeah, right.”

My heart sank at his faint laughter. Like it was crazy talk to make myself relatable to him.

“You’re light and I’m dark. You’re innocent and naïve, and I’ve lived a life of too many ugly experiences I’ll never forget.”

I tucked my hands together between my thighs, wishing I could cower away from his stark descriptions. I was an idiot to ever think we would mesh.

“That’s why I’ve tried to stay away, Becca.” He blew out a long and loud sigh, venting as he drove. “After I brought you here, I knew I’d get addicted to teaching you, showing you what I liked.”

I shrugged, looking out the window.

“Because I fucking loved every second of pounding into your tight pussy. Every minute of feeling you surrender to me.”

I squeezed my legs tighter together, turned on by his filthy talk.

“But I knew you weren’t mine. You’re supposed to be a hostage, not the first and only woman who’d get under my skin.”

I whipped around to stare at him, mesmerized by his gritty honesty that he seemed so annoyed about.

“That you’d never be mine. Too good and sweet. Too different from the hard life I’m used to.”

“Then make me tougher. Dirty me up.”

He faced me, capturing me with his hooded gaze. I reveled in his needy expression, like he’d been tormenting himself to stay away.

“Don’t tempt me.” He returned his focus to the road.

Too late.I squirmed in my seat.Because you’ve tempted me since the moment you first tied me up.

We didn’t speak for the rest of the drive, and I vacillated between wanting to speak up and staying quiet. He’d given me so much to think about, but I was too nervous to get my hopes up high. This was complicated, being near him and realizing we might have mutual desire for each other. Steven was the biggest obstacle, but once he was gone and Ivan no longer had a reason to keep me so close…

One thing at a time.I’d take this conversation as a positive thing, a step in the right direction for what my heart and body wanted.

He drove straight to the studio, and my excitement about being here increased.

“I let a college student come in when she needs to work on things. Someone Hannah knows. But she broke her wrist recently, and I doubt she’s been in here.” Unlocking the door to the basement space was a familiar routine that I hadn’t done in a while.

“Have you been here recently?” he asked as he followed me in and blinked at the bright lights flickering on as I hit the switch.

It smelled stale, unused, but the further we entered, the fragrant scent of earthy, muddy clay hit me and I smiled.

“No. Not since Emily was born. I came here maybe once when I was pregnant.” I hated that I’d been gone for so long.How could I ever become a full-time artist if I was never present to make new things?

“It’s not easy, working sixty hours a week and then being a single parent.” I glanced at him as he walked around, looking at the paintings, drawings, and unfinished sculpture designs. “I never had a Margie to help.”

Or you.

“Do you paint and sculpt and draw?” He claimed a stool and sat on it, watching me flit around the creative space I’d missed.

“All of the above. I paint, but I prefer sculpture. Working with my hands.” I grabbed a piece of clay from the airtight bin, assuming he wouldn’t mind if I demonstrated what I meant.

Seated at the wheel, I wetted the plate to begin securing the clay for a simple bowl.

“How come?”

I shrugged without lifting my hands. “I like tofeelit. To feel the art come alive.”

He stared, watching my hands with obvious curiosity. “I know what you mean.”

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