Page 95 of Captive Virgin of the Bratva

She kisses me first. Rough. Desperate.

Her hands clutch at my shirt, twisting the fabric like it’s the only thing keeping her anchored. Her lips crash against mine without hesitation—no grace, no caution. Just heat. Just need.

I lose control.

My mouth devours hers, all breath and hunger and the kind of longing that builds when you’ve spent days thinking you might never see her again. Our teeth clash, our noses bump, but I don’t care. She’s kissing me like she means to erase every memory of pain, of betrayal, of fear—and I let her.

Iencourageit.

Her fingers thread into my hair, tugging hard, and I groan into her mouth. My hands drop to her waist, sliding beneath the hem of the shirt she’s wearing—myshirt—and I find bare skin. Warm. Silken. Alive.

It’s enough to drive me mad.

I guide her back gently—despite the frenzy in my blood, I’m careful. Her body yields to mine as I lower her onto the mattress, her legs parting just enough to pull me closer, her eyes fluttering open for a split second as her head hits the pillow.

“Kolya,” she whispers. Not a plea. Not a protest.

A promise.

I push the shirt up inch by inch, baring her to the light. She watches me as I do it, cheeks flushed, chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. My knuckles graze the underside of her ribs, the swell of her breast, the hollow just beneath her throat.

She trembles—but doesn’t stop me.

I lean down, pressing kisses along her collarbone, then lower. Her skin tastes like salt and something softer beneath it—like surrender, like heat. She sighs, one hand gripping the back of my neck as my mouth finds every inch she’s never let anyone touch before.

She’s mine.

That knowledge settles deep in my chest—thick and warm and absolute.

I reach for her thighs next, palms sliding up the outside, slow and possessive. She gasps when my fingers dip under the last barrier between us, her back arching slightly as her hips shift beneath me.

“Elise,” I murmur against her skin, voice ragged, “I love you.”

Her eyes open, dazed and full of something that makes my pulse stutter.

“I love you too.”

I kiss her again—this time slower. No teeth. No bruising. Just heat and reverence and the kind of ache that’s lived inside me since the moment I laid eyes on her. Her lips part beneath mine, her tongue shy but seeking. She pulls me down and wraps herself around me, thigh over my hip, nails scraping along my spine.

I lose myself in the feel of her. My cock is hard and leaking as I pull myself free. I hike up her skirt, shove her panties aside and fuck, she’s soaked already.

The sounds she make when I enter her are delicious. The way she gasps against my neck when I press closer, grinding her against the mattress. Every movement feels like something sacred. Like a vow.

When she whispers my name again—so soft I almost miss it—I look down and see something new in her eyes.

She’s choosing me. Despite everything. I swear, I’ll never let her regret it.

Her name on my lips—Elise, my Elise—threads something sharp through my chest. I move slowly at first, like I’m afraid of breaking her, of shattering the fragile thing blooming between us.

She’s not fragile. Not when her legs tighten around my hips and she lifts her pelvis to meet me, greedy for more, slick and warm and perfect around me.

I grip her thigh and drag it higher, opening her wider, sinking deeper. She gasps again, back arching. The sound she makes is all heat and need, half moan, half-breathless plea. I feel her nails scrape across my shoulders, blunt and trembling, leaving trails of fire in their wake.

“God, you feel—” I can’t finish. Words disintegrate under the weight of how tight she is, how wet, how right this feels.

I drive in harder. Deeper. She cries out, and it’s the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard. Her hands slide up into my hair, tugging, anchoring me to her, as if she’s terrified I’ll pull away.

I won’t. I couldn’t.

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