Page 40 of Forced By the Obsessed Bratva
Sprawled across the couch like she’d forgotten the world outside existed.
Her hair, damp from the shower, clung to her cheek in wet waves. One of my shirts was draped over her body—too large for her, the sleeves falling off her shoulders, the hem riding dangerously high on her thighs.
She was barefoot.
I thought at first that she was sleeping. Maybe reading again. Maybe trying to find solace in a house she hadn’t yet claimed as her own.
There was a quietness about her that wasn’t peaceful or calm. It was the stillness of someone waiting to explode.
My thumb hovered above the screen, and for a moment, I did not think like a second-in-command. Or a husband.
I felt like a man who missed the sound of her voice.
The weight of her stare.
The way she gazed at me when our lips first met, as if she despised the strength of feeling it provoked in her.
I remained still, watching her, realizing for the first time how much I truly loved being around her. Christ, I really fucking missed her.
And then her hand moved.
It wasn’t restless or bored; it moved with purpose. Her fingers wandered lazily over her belly, tracing slow, sensual lines. And then lower.
Her thighs moved, and her breath caught.
She had no idea that I was watching her.
And I knew I ought to have turned away. Cut it off. Let her have this.
But I didn’t.
I couldn’t.
My pulse kicked hard as her hand lingered on her inner thigh, gentle, questing, and then her hips shifted slightly enough.
She leaned her head back, her eyes gently closing, and a gasp escaped her lips, the softest sound.
It was barely a moan, but it ripped through me like a gunshot. It was a want she hadn’t uttered in ten days.
I gripped the phone tighter.
That sound…it wasn’t for anyone. Not even for me, but now it was mine, anyway.
Because I’d heard it.
Because I couldn’t unhear it.
The vision of her, wrapped in my shirt, one hand tracing a path between her thighs as her head fell back in my living room, seared itself into my brain, and something inside me snapped taut.
It wasn’t anger or lust; it was something passionate and intense. Something fiercer than the sharp edges of a knife and fire.
Something way worse than dark desire.
Possession.
Mine.
She may hate me. She may avoid me. She may spend all her waking moments pretending that she didn’t want me.
