Page 32 of Innocently Captured By the Bratva

Mark’s frown deepens, his blue-gray eyes searching mine. “I was only trying to help, Quinn. Letvin was practically holding onto you.”

His tone catches me off guard, and a flicker of guilt dances within me. Maybe he was just trying to protect me. But why does he have to do it in such a domineering way?

“Well, next time, let me handle it,” I snap back, my voice sharper than I intended.

There’s a charged silence between us as Mark’s jaw tightens, his gaze unwavering. “Fine,” he finally says, his tone clipped.

I feel a pang of regret about how I lashed out. It wasn’t completely fair of me to blame him for coming to my rescue after knowing what he knows about Letvin, but the truth is, deep down, I’m still reeling from the sight of him with that brunette.

Before I can think of a way to smooth things over, Mark nods towards the exit. “Let’s get out of here,” he says curtly.

“I think I’d rather stay,” I protest, but he grabs my hand and pulls me away from the bar.

***

Mark's grip on my hand remains firm as he guides me through the throng of partygoers, his broad shoulders parting the crowd with ease. As we step outside, the cool night air hits my flushed skin, and I take a deep breath, trying to clear my head.

But my momentary relief is short-lived as Mark practically shoves me into the waiting limousine, his jaw clenched tight. He slides in beside me, slamming the door with more force than necessary.

“What the hell was that about?” I demand, my earlier gratitude giving way to indignation. “How can you force me to leave the party? I don't need you swooping in like some kind of savior.”

Mark's eyes flash dangerously in the dim light of the limo. “Some kind of savior? Letvin had his filthy hands all over you!”

I bristle at his accusation. “He wasn't putting his hands all over me. And even if he was, he wouldn’t have gone far.”

“You don’t know him like I do, Quinn!” he challenges, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “From where I was standing, it looked like you were about two seconds away from becoming another name on his list.”

“Screw you, Mark,” I spit, my temper flaring. “I'm certainly not your property.”

He leans in close, his breath hot against my cheek. “Who said you were?”

I despise how my body reacts to his, how my pulse races, and my skin tingles. I resent that even now, in the heat of our argument, I can’t help but wonder what it would be like to close the distance between us, to feel his lips on mine once more.

This change in our situationship makes me feel dizzy with conflicting thoughts. I need to get out of here before I make another mistake—like the one I made on the dance floor, leaning into the kiss and drawing him in for more. Besides, the alcohol is making me impulsive, fiery, and heated.

“Well, enjoy your delusions,” I say, yanking on the door handle since the car is still on wait. “I've got a party to get back to.”

But before I can open the door, Mark's hand shoots out, slamming it shut. He traps me in, his body just inches from mine. His scent, an intoxicating blend of power and masculinity, envelops me, clouding my senses.

“Drive,” he tells the driver, his eyes not leaving mine.

He leans in even closer, until our noses are practically touching. “We’re going home, Quinn. Our work here is done tonight.”

His proximity to me fans the flames of desire that have been smoldering inside me all night, and I can feel the heatcreeping into my cheeks. I open my mouth to deny his decision, to lash out, but no words come.

“That's what I thought,” he says, his voice dripping with satisfaction. “Home it is.”

As the limousine begins to move, I try to ignore the electric tension between us, the crackling chemistry that seems to have a mind of its own. Mark's intense gaze remains fixed on my face. He still has me caged in, as if he's attempting to decipher the storm of conflicting emotions swirling within me.

Time seems to lose all meaning. Logic flies right out the window. All I can think about is how badly I want this infuriating man.

Before I can think, I part my lips, and his crash against mine, his tongue demanding entrance to my mouth. I don’t resist. I melt into him, my fingers tangling in his dark, silky hair. His hands roam my body, cupping my hips and then sliding up my thighs, hiking my legs up to rest on his. Then, he pulls out from beneath me and inches his body over mine.

I moan and grab the back of his neck, arching my body against his, my nails digging into his skin.

As the passion between us intensifies, I feel a primal need to get closer to him, to be one with him.

His hand slides up my thigh, the heat of his touch searing through the thin fabric of my dress. I gasp and reach for the buttons of his shirt, telling him it’s okay, telling him I want more. The tension between us reaches a fever pitch. “Tell me you don't want this,” he growls, his voice a low rumble that sets my insides on fire.

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