Page 52 of Used Bratva Bride

I close my eyes, my breathing uneven. God, what is wrong with me?

I tell myself it’s normal. That it’s just a reaction, a biological response to someone so infuriatingly dominant, to someone who has taken every ounce of power from me and left me with nothing but my own traitorous thoughts.

Knowing that doesn’t change the way my thighs clench together. It doesn’t change the way my body feels too awake, too aware.

I shake my head and reach for a towel, patting my face dry before shutting off the water. I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself before slipping back into the bedroom.

The bed feels impossibly big when I slide beneath the covers, the distance between Mikhail and me both a relief and a frustration.

I turn onto my side, facing away from him, determined to will myself into sleep.

Just as I begin to drift, his voice murmurs low in the quiet.

Something in Russian.

His tone is husky, thick with sleep, but there’s no mistaking the meaning of what he says. Even without knowing the language, I feel it.

My cheeks warm instantly, my breath hitching as I process the weight of his words.

I don’t dare turn around.

I don’t want to know if he’s dreaming of me. Or if, even in sleep, he’s still thinking about what he plans to do to me.

***

I wake slowly, my body warm, pressed into something solid. Heavy.

It takes me a moment to realize what it is. Mikhail.

His weight pins me beneath him, his arm slung possessively around my waist, his breath even and deep against my hair. The scent of him lingers—masculine, dark, expensive.

My heart pounds as I try to shift, to wiggle free, but the movement only presses me deeper into the mattress.

Mikhail stirs, a low, sleepy sound escaping him before his grip tightens. His body shifts, his thigh sliding between mine, keeping me caged beneath him.

I still, my pulse hammering.

He’s too close. The heat of him seeps into my skin, and I become painfully aware of every point of contact—the hard press of his chest against mine, the rough scrape of stubble against my temple.

Then, just as I think I might be able to slip out, his eyes flutter open. Dark. Intense. They lock on to mine, and a slow, wicked smirk tugs at his lips.

Before I can say a word, he kisses me. Rough. Deep. A firm press of his mouth that steals the air from my lungs.

His tongue slides against mine without hesitation, claiming, teasing, owning. I gasp against him, my fingers gripping his arms as he tilts my head back, deepening the kiss.

Heat pools low in my stomach, a rush of sensation that’s almost too much.

Mikhail straddles me, shifting so that I’m completely beneath him.

One hand grips my jaw, holding me still as his lips trail from my mouth to my neck, pressing against my pulse. Then, his fingers find the hem of my sleep shirt.

I shiver as he drags the fabric up, slow, deliberate. He lifts it over my head, tossing it aside, and his hand dives for my breast, skimming over the pert nipple.

The cool air kisses my skin, but it’s nothing compared to the heat of his gaze as he takes me in, his hands smoothing over my bare sides.

I should feel embarrassed. I should feel afraid.

I don’t. I want this. I want him.

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