Page 64 of Knocked-up Bratva Bride
His hands slid lower, exploring, touching, like my body had always belonged to him. And in the haze of the moment, I thought, maybe it did. Maybe it always had.
Then, his fingers slipped beneath the hem of my nightdress, that sheer scrap of lace I’d thrown on only hours agointentionallyto arouse him.
So, in truth, maybe I actually anticipated this moment. Maybe I wanted it a little too much.
He stilled.
And I felt the breath he sucked in—the way his fingers flexed against my hips and dug into my bare thighs. I stifled a moan, feigning ignorance.
“What’s wrong?”
His voice dropped lower, dark and laced with something primal. “You’re not wearing anything underneath.”
“Isn’t that what all newlywed wives do? Stay naked underneath?”
He pressed his hot mouth on the back of my neck. And I could have moved away, but I didn’t.
I let my head fall back against his shoulder as one of his hands traced the curve of my thigh, the other drawing lazy, possessive circles on my stomach.
The mug in my hand trembled. I barely managed to set it down before it slipped.
“I wouldn’t know. But Iknowyou did this because you knew I’d come.”
I breathed. I wasn’t going to admit it.
“What if I don’t want you, and it’s all in your head?”
He laughed, and the rich, melodious sound genuinely surprised me. “You think I’m going to force you to fuck me?”
“Won’t you?”
“Elena, that’s rape,” he said more seriously, and I might have imagined the hint of offence in his voice. “I won’t do that. But Iwillmake you want me.”
His hands moved with purpose now, slow but steady, lifting the hem of my nightdress higher, inch by inch.
He took his time. The fabric slid up my thighs, and every inch of exposed skin burned under his touch.
My breath quickened, shallow and uneven, and I couldn’t tell if it was from the chill in the air or the heat pooling deep within me.
The nightdress gathered at my waist, caught in his fists, and I gasped as the cool air and his hot hands met my bare ass.
He squeezed them, spanked them, and muttered a bunch of Russian gibberish while his voice went from smooth to hoarse. Roughly, he pressed himself against me, the strain of his erection poking against my butt, and I arched into him, unconsciously reaching out to feel more of his heat.
Then, he twisted, his hand at my waist anchoring me to him, and his mouth found mine before I could even think.
And just like that, the world stopped. Images of Katya, Nana, Jaz, and my mother faded, and all that was left was the sea of blue eyes and the taste of wine on Damien’s tongue.
I bent my neck and closed my eyes, moaning shamelessly into his mouth. I wanted this man more than I should have.
Lifting one hand, I cradled his left cheek and let my palm stroke his jaw. He seemed to like it, if his groans were any confirmation.
His lips were demanding, so full of hunger and heat, like kissing me was the only way he knew to express himself.
I braced one hand against the counter and moved the other, reaching back from his sharp jawline to tangle in his hair. He deepened the kiss, tilting my head with a gentle pressure, and I let him take everything—my breath, my resistance, the space between us.
Then, he pulled away so suddenly that my feet swayed from the impact.
“Why—”
