Page 65 of Captive Virgin of the Bratva

His lips crush against mine, all heat and teeth and barely held control. His hands are rough, sliding down my waist, gripping my hips like he wants to tear the dress from my body. I respond without thinking—lips parting, head tipping, hands fisting in the front of his shirt.

He groans into my mouth, low and guttural, the sound vibrating against my chest.

There’s nothing soft about it. Nothing sweet.

It’s violent in its hunger. Messy. Clumsy. Perfect.

His thigh wedges between mine and I gasp, arching up into him. The pressure is maddening. My body betrays me with every pulse and shift, every desperate little sound I can’t keep trapped in my throat.

I want more.

His mouth trails down my neck, teeth grazing skin just hard enough to sting. My legs go weak, my knees wobble, but his hands are already under my thighs, lifting me. I’m weightless for a second before my back hits the wall again.

He holds me there like I’m nothing. Like I’m everything.

His mouth returns to mine, slower now. Deeper. His tongue strokes against mine and I moan again, shame and need tangled too tightly to tell apart. One of his hands slides up, fingertips brushing the underside of my breast. I shudder.

“Having fun?” he whispers, and I can only groan as his cock twitches against my thighs.

Every time I remember the blood on his hands, the ruthlessness in his eyes… I also remember how he looked at me tonight. How he made the world stop spinning every time he touched me.

His dominance terrifies me, but I want it.

Icraveit.

When he presses his hips into mine and I feel the thick heat of him through layers of clothes, I nearly break. My body pulses in rhythm with his breath, both of us caught in something we can’t name.

My head falls back against the wall. I let out a shaky, desperate breath.

He freezes. Then he pulls away. Just a little.

Our lips are still close. Our bodies still pressed together. But he doesn’t move further. Doesn’t take.

He just stares at me.

His pupils are blown wide, his mouth swollen, breath coming in uneven bursts.

I watch him fight it. The need. The hunger. The urge to finish what we started.

For a moment, neither of us speaks. I press my back harder into the wall, trying to slow my pulse. Trying to quiet the ache between my thighs. Trying tobreathe.

He runs a hand down his face, jaw clenched. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

I laugh—bitter, breathless. “No. You shouldn’t have.”

I don’t sound angry; I sound wrecked.

He leans in again—close, but not touching. His mouth brushes my ear.

“You don’t belong to anyone else,” he whispers. “I’ll remind you every time you try to forget that.”

I don’t let him walk away this time.

He steps back like he always does—his mouth swollen, breath ragged, guilt or restraint or whatever the hell that tension is already settling over his face. I see the flicker in his eyes, that split second of war inside him, and for once, I don’t care.

I grab his wrist before he can leave.

His eyes snap to mine. Surprise flashes through them—brief and sharp—but I don’t flinch. I don’t look away. I step into him, slow and deliberate, my fingers sliding up the center of his chest to the collar of his shirt.

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