Page 53 of Captive Virgin of the Bratva

“That doesn’t mean anything.”

He leans in, breath brushing my lips. “It will.”

I shove at him again, but he doesn’t budge. I hate him. Ihatehim—but my body responds like it’s drunk on proximity, on his voice, on the friction that always flares to life between us the moment he gets close.

His hand slides down, brushing the edge of my waist.

“You know what your problem is?” he murmurs.

“I’m sure you’ll tell me.”

“You keep pretending you don’t want me.”

“I don’t.”

“Liar.”

He moves so fast I gasp—one arm braced beside my head, pinning me lightly against the wall. His hips not quite touching mine, but close enough that heat pulses through the small space left.

His lips are at my ear now. “Tell me to stop.”

My heart stutters. My breath catches.

“Tell me,” he says again, voice a low command.

My silence seals it.

Not because I’ve given in—but because there’s nothing left to say. The air between us crackles, pulsing with tension, with heat, with a hunger I’m no longer pretending not to feel. My body goes still beneath his, not in fear, but in anticipation. Every nerve is on edge, trembling like a drawn wire, wound tight and ready to snap.

His thumb brushes along my jaw, rough but careful, tilting my face to his. My eyes find his, and I know what he sees there. The defiance he thought he’d crushed. The fight he tried to beat out of me. It’s still there. Dimmed, yes. Changed. But burning hotter now. Hungrier.

Then his mouth crashes into mine.

It’s not a kiss—it’s a claim.

Hard and unrelenting, all teeth and tongue and dominance. He takes without asking, devours like he has the right, and my gasp gets swallowed into him. My hand scrambles for balance—one gripping the edge of his forearm, the other twisting into the front of his shirt, pulling him closer when I should be pushing him away.

There’s no space. No air. No control.

And I don’t want any.

I feel myself arch against him when his hand slides down my waist, rough fingers gripping my hip like I’m already his. A sound slips from my lips—half moan, half something sharper. It only makes him press in harder, his teeth catching my lower lip until I gasp again, breathless and burning.

He lifts me like I weigh nothing, like I’m made to fit against him, my legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, arms hooking behind his neck. I hold on like I’ll break without him.

Somewhere between the wall and the bed, I forget everything—why I should stop this, what I’ve been through, who he is.

All that exists is the heat of his body, the roughness of his mouth, the terrifying need building inside me that I can’t control.

He lowers me onto the bed, my back hitting the mattress with a soft gasp.

Then he follows—covering me, surrounding me. Kissing me like he’s starved for it.

Like I’m the one thing he was never supposed to touch but will never give up now that he has.

The heat between us is relentless.

His lips drag down the side of my neck, finding the hollow just above my collarbone, biting down hard enough to make me gasp. His breath fans hot over the mark, a promise pressed into skin.

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