Page 25 of Chased & Bred by the BRATVA
“That’s the best part,” she says against my lips before locking us in a kiss.
Rachel
We stay there a moment longer, pressed together, the past two days crackling between us like static.
“Come inside, little rabbit,” he says, his voice softer now. “It’s cold out here. And you’re mine to keep warm.” He pulls out of me and lowers me gently to the ground. I miss him instantly, the stretch, the fullness. The ache that replaces him is half from the absolute pounding he just gave me and half from wanting more.
My legs feel like jelly as I pull my leggings back on and adjust the shirt back into place, covering my otherwise naked breasts.
It’s Nikolai’s again. Another one I’ve stolen from his dresser. Too big, too soft, too him. My skin still tingles from where he touched me, marked me, moved inside me like he was writing his name across my soul. My hair’s a mess, there are probably leaves still caught in the braid I redid with shaking fingers, and my thighs are sticky in the most indecent way.
And yet I feel radiant.
Like I can breathe deeply for the first time in my life.
Nikolai leans against a tree, arms crossed over his bare chest, watching me with that half-wild, half-sated look that makes my stomach flip. He hasn’t said much since we started walking back. Just little things, like “Mine,” muttered under his breath every time I adjusted the hem of the shirt, or “Don’t bother,” when I tried to wipe away the smudged dirt from my knee.
He reaches for me again now, fingers brushing the back of my neck before drifting lower.
“Nikolai,” I warn, laughing, swatting his hand. “I need food. Actual food. And maybe two gallons of water.”
He shrugs like it’s irrelevant. “I need you more.”
“You already had me.” I argue, but I’d be lying if I said it didn’t awaken that need in me again when he looks at me this way.
“Not enough.”
God help me, I don’t think it ever will be. For either of us.
Still, I tug his hand and pull him toward the house, barefoot and grinning like we’ve just escaped a crime scene. The estate is quiet, the lights in the hallway dimmed, the distant rumble of a car engine the only sign of life. The kitchen is cool and polished, all steel and marble and far too pristine for a house full of criminals.
I head straight to the fridge, rooting through the neatly labeled containers, trying to ignore the fact that Nikolai is now pressed against my back again, hands on my hips, chin on my shoulder.
“You’re like a heat-seeking missile,” I murmur.
“You smell like sex and soap and me,” he replies, nuzzling my neck. “What do you expect me to do?”
I roll my eyes but hand him a container of leftover pasta. “Fork?”
“Don’t need one,” he says, then grabs a strand and slurps it into his mouth with zero shame.
I’m still laughing when someone clears their throat.
I whirl around, cheeks flaming, to find a woman standing in the doorway. She’s about my age, maybe a touch younger, with soft brown curls tucked behind her ears and a pristine aprontied around her waist. Her posture is straight, but there’s a slight stiffness in her expression, as if she’s used to being invisible.
“Oh, um, sorry,” I say, stepping slightly away from Nikolai.
She gives a small smile. “You’re fine. I was just coming to check the morning prep. Didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“You didn’t,” I offer quickly. “I’m Rachel.”
“Sarah,” she replies, glancing briefly at Nikolai before lowering her gaze again. “Nice to meet you.”
Something flickers in her expression when she looks at him. Not fear, not exactly. More like… awareness. Like she knows exactly what kind of man he is and has trained herself not to draw attention.
I watch her cross to the far counter and begin checking something on a clipboard, silent and efficient.
“Does she live here too?” I whisper once she’s out of earshot.
