Page 72 of Forced Virgin Bride of the Bratva
Platon doesn’t ask why. That’s why I keep him.
“Understood,” he says. “Give me twenty-four hours.” He hangs up without another word.
I let the phone fall into my lap and press my thumb against the bridge of my nose, forcing back the tide of tension building behind my eyes. The night didn’t go wrong in any visible way. No gunshots. No outbursts. No bodies dragged out before dessert.
Something shifted.
I felt it in Volkov’s tone. In the way he looked at me—too casual, too smug. Like a man who’s finally been handed the match to light someone else’s house on fire. He should’ve been sweating. Instead, he was confident.
Confidence like that means someone’s feeding him.
I turn my head, glance at Kiera.
It bothers me how much I want to know what she’s thinking. Bothered me all night, the way her smile flickered around other men, how she tilted her head when they leaned in too close. Every part of her is a question I keep wanting to answer—even when I know I shouldn’t.
I look away.
She’s quiet until we hit the long stretch of private road leading up to the estate. Then I feel it—that shift. That awareness between us like static. When I glance over, her gaze is already on me, dark-lashed and unreadable in the low light of the dash. There’s something shadowed in her expression, but not closed. Not cold.
“Everything good?” she asks.
Her tone is light, casual, but there’s weight tucked behind it. She wants to know what happened in that ballroom. What pulled me under, what made my hand clench around the rim of my glass hard enough to leave a mark.
I could tell her the truth. Instead, I go with the easier one.
“Nothing wrong,” I say, my voice rougher than it should be, “except I’ve been thinking about tearing that dress off you since you walked past me three hours ago.”
That gets her. She tilts her head slightly, lips curling. One strap of that sinful red dress slides off her shoulder like it’s been waiting for permission.
“That so?” she says, voice low and knowing.
She’s teasing me—openly now, deliberately—and it’s working. My patience, already thinned by Volkov’s venom and the long night, snaps like a pulled thread.
“Get in the back seat.”
I don’t raise my voice. I don’t have to.
She freezes for a breath, eyes sharp, and then—slowly, gracefully—unbuckles her seat belt. Her heels make the faintest thud against the floor mats as she climbs into the back. She doesn’t sit primly. She lounges, one leg bent, the other stretched out, a picture of careless invitation. Her dress rides up along her thighs, that slick red silk catching the shadows.
I kill the headlights and shift the car into park, the engine idling low like it knows not to intrude. Then I climb over the console, hand braced to keep the shift from digging into her side.
The moment I’m close, her hands are on me, pulling me down by the lapels of my jacket. I grip the hem of her dress and shove it up past her waist, the fabric bunching high on her hips. She gasps when my mouth finds the side of her neck, the exact place she’s most sensitive. I’ve learned her. I know the way her body arches when I press my palm between her thighs, how her breath stutters when I kiss the edge of her jaw instead of her mouth.
“You wore this to torture me,” I murmur, dragging her panties down with one hand. “You knew what it would do.”
“I was bored,” she whispers. “You looked busy.”
I slip two fingers inside her before she can say anything else.
She shudders—beautiful, fierce—and clenches around me. Her nails dig into my shoulder, her lips parting around a breathless sound that dies against my throat. I move slowly at first, watching the way her hips roll, how her head falls backagainst the leather. She’s wet, already on edge, and I haven’t even unbuckled my belt.
“I should make you beg,” I say against her ear.
Her voice is shaky, defiant. “You could try.”
“Oh, I’ll succeed.”
I unzip, groan as I free myself, and hook her knees around my waist. No prep. No pretense. We’re past that. She’s ready, and I’m past pretending I can wait.
