Page 2 of Innocent Bratva Hostage

I don’t know what to say, so I say nothing. The air between us feels charged, heavy with something I can’t quite name. When his hand moves to my wrist, his thumb brushing over my skin, I forget how to breathe.

“Makar—” I start, but his name feels strange on my tongue, too intimate.

He tilts his head, studying me like I’m a puzzle he’s trying to solve. “Come upstairs with me.”

The words hang in the air, a challenge and an invitation all at once.

I should say no. Every instinct I have screams at me to get up, to walk away, but I can’t. There’s something about him, something dark and magnetic, that makes it impossible to refuse.

I nod, and the flicker of satisfaction in his eyes makes my stomach flip.

Makar doesn’t say a word as he takes my hand and leads me out of the lounge. His grip is firm, commanding, yet not rough. It’s the kind of touch that tells me he’s used to people following his lead without question.

I can’t think of a single reason to be the exception.

The hallway is quiet, a stark contrast to the pounding music behind us. My heels click against the marble floor as we step into the elevator. He presses the button for the top floor, his movements deliberate.

My heart races, a steady thrum in my chest that grows louder as the floors tick by. I glance at him from the corner of my eye. He hasn’t let go of my hand, and I feel the heat of his palm against mine.

When the doors open, he doesn’t wait. He strides out, pulling me gently but insistently down the corridor. I don’t even notice the opulence around me—plush carpets, gold accents, the faint scent of something expensive in the air.

My focus is on him, on the tension in his shoulders, on the way his presence fills the space like a storm waiting to break.

The door to his suite clicks shut behind us, and suddenly the world feels impossibly small.

I stand frozen in the entryway as he shrugs off his jacket, draping it over a chair. He doesn’t turn to look at me right away, and I take the moment to drink him in—the way his shirt clings to the muscles of his back, the sharp line of his jaw as he loosens his tie.

“Come here,” he says, his voice low and steady.

I take a hesitant step forward, my pulse hammering in my ears. He closes the distance between us in an instant, his hands finding my hips. His touch is firm, grounding, and I feel myself exhale a breath I didn’t know I was holding.

“You think too much,” he murmurs, his lips brushing the shell of my ear. “I can see it in your eyes. Let it go.”

I open my mouth to respond, but he tilts my chin up with one finger, silencing me. His eyes meet mine, and the intensity there makes my knees feel weak.

“Tonight, you don’t have to think,” he says. “I’ll take care of everything.”

Before I can process his words, his lips are on mine. The kiss is nothing like I expect. It’s not gentle, not tentative. It’s consuming, a fire that spreads through me with every second. His hands slide up my sides, his thumbs brushing just beneath my ribs, and I feel like I might melt under his touch.

I grip his shoulders, my fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as he deepens the kiss. His teeth graze my lower lip, a teasing nip that sends a spark of heat straight through me. I don’t even realize I’m moaning until I feel his chest rumble with a low, approving growl.

Makar pulls back just enough to study my face, his fingers tracing the curve of my jaw. His thumb brushes over my cheek, and there’s something almost tender in the gesture, though his expression remains unreadable.

“Do you trust me?” he asks, his voice softer now, but no less commanding.

I don’t know why, but I nod.

“Good,” he says, and the word is a promise.

He leads me to the bedroom, his hands never straying far from my body. When he eases the straps of my dress down my shoulders, I shiver, but not from the cold. His fingers trail over my skin, igniting every nerve as he takes his time undressing me.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, almost to himself, as if the words weren’t meant for me to hear.

I barely have a moment to process the compliment before his lips are on my neck, his hands guiding me back until the backs of my knees hit the edge of the bed. I sink down, and he follows, his weight pinning me beneath him.

He kisses me like it’s the only thing keeping him alive, his hands exploring every inch of me. His touch is rough in places, soft in others, a perfect balance that leaves me breathless. For once, I don’t feel the need to be in control. I let him take the lead, let him show me what it means to surrender.

He wastes little time in undressing, simply tugging down his pants. His cock springs free—thick, veiny, already leaking precum.

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