Page 60 of Captive Virgin of the Bratva

I drag her hips forward, press her fully into me. She lets out a breathless moan that she clearly regrets the second it escapes.

“Shut up,” she snaps, trying to twist away.

I pin her harder. “Make me.”

Her eyes flash, mouth open, breath shallow. Our faces are inches apart now, both of us breathing like we’ve run miles to get here. The hallway is dim, empty, silent. This moment—this pressure—it vibrates between us like a wire pulled taut.

“You hate this,” I say, voice rough, “but you want it.”

“You’re delusional.”

“Say it again,” I whisper, dragging my mouth along her jaw. “Say you don’t want me.”

Her silence is a weapon.

I let it cut me open.

I kiss her again—slower this time, deeper. My hand slides beneath the hem of the oversized shirt she’s wearing, grazing bare skin. Her breath stutters. Her head tilts just slightly. Her legs shift, parting an inch before she catches herself.

That’s when I stop. If I don’t, I’ll fuck her right here in the hallway. I want more than that. I want her begging.

I step back.

Her face is flushed, lips swollen, breathing ragged. She’s furious. With herself. With me. With whatever it is we’re building between these moments of fire and silence.

“I thought you were busy,” she snaps, adjusting the shirt like it offers any kind of defense.

“I was.”

“Then go back to whatever gutter you crawled out of.”

I smirk. “You missed me.”

“Like a rash.”

I take a slow step back, giving her the space she doesn’t really want.

“Go to bed, Elise,” I say. “Before I change my mind about pulling back.”

She doesn’t move. Just glares at me with fire in her blood.

I see the way her thighs press together, and smirk.

She stays against the wall after I’ve stepped away, like she’s still feeling the ghost of my hands on her. Like part of her is waiting to see if I’ll come back.

I don’t. I watch her.

I watch the rise and fall of her chest, the redness on her throat where my mouth lingered, the way her fingers fidget at the edge of the shirt like she doesn’t know whether to cover herself or dare me to try again. That fire in her—it’s still there, still burning beneath the surface, but it’s twisted now. Tangled with something she can’t quite name.

Desire. Confusion. Rage.

It suits her.

“I should kill you,” she mutters finally, voice low, sharp, but lacking conviction.

I grin. “Then who would kiss you like that?”

Her eyes narrow. “You think this means something?”

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