Page 56 of Used Bratva Bride

Her eyes flicker to my lips for the briefest second before she forces herself to look away.

I swallow, dragging the moment out before finally speaking.

“Not bad.”

Her expression flickers, irritation flashing in her eyes before she exhales sharply. “You’re impossible.”

I tilt my head, studying her. “Yet you made me breakfast and everything.”

She glares. “It was for me.”

I smirk. “Of course it was.”

Her breath hitches, but she doesn’t move when I lean in, my hands resting on either side of her, caging her against the counter. She could push me away. She doesn’t.

“You know,” I murmur, my lips just barely grazing her ear, “I think you like taking care of me, printsessa.”

She shudders, her body betraying her.

“I think,” I continue, “you’re adjusting quite well to being my wife.”

Her breath is ragged, her chest rising and falling rapidly, but she doesn’t deny it. She can’t. The truth is, she is adjusting.

The defiance is still there, but she’s growing more comfortable, more attuned to the way things work here. A part of me—one I should ignore—likes seeing it.

I cup her jaw, tilting her face up to mine. Her lips part slightly, her body tensing as she waits—unsure if she should fight me or melt into the inevitable.

I make the choice for her. I press my lips against hers, slow but firm, coaxing rather than demanding. Julie doesn’t resist. She gasps softly against my mouth, but she doesn’t pull away. If anything, she leans in, responding just enough to tell me everything I need to know.

She wants this. She’s confused, but she wants.

The realization sends heat curling through my veins, my hand slipping to the small of her back, tugging her closer.

Her hands fist at my shirt, gripping the fabric like she doesn’t know whether to push me away or keep me there.

I deepen the kiss, biting down on her lower lip just enough to make her gasp again, her fingers twitching against my chest.

I feel the moment she gives in, the exact second she lets herself enjoy this. It’s intoxicating.

Just when I think I might take this further, I pull back, leaving her breathless and dazed.

She blinks up at me, her lips slightly swollen, her breathing uneven.

I brush my thumb along her jawline, smirking as I whisper, “Not bad.”

Her cheeks burn.

I step back, satisfied, my hands returning to my sides as I watch her struggle to compose herself. This is what I wanted.

Her body, her reactions, her growing confusion. The way her anger now comes second to the desire simmering just beneath the surface.

She swallows hard, turning away to busy herself with cleaning up, but I catch the way her fingers tremble slightly.

Yes. She’s adjusting. I like it far more than I should.

I watch as she fights for control, trying to regain the upper hand, but it’s already lost. The way she’s standing, her back straight but her breath uneven, the way she refuses to meet my gaze—she’s still reeling. Still affected.

I like knowing I did that to her.

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