Page 13 of Watched and Bred By the Bratva
"Yes."
His inhale is ragged enough to make my stomach drop and lurch. Then his mouth is on mine.
It's not ruthless.
It's not soft.
It's slow—like he's learning the shape of the word with his mouth, a careful press that becomes a promise. The first brush is nothing more than heat and restraint. The second opens me. The third steals my balance. I clutch his shirt without meaning to. He makes a sound deep in his chest that I feel under my hand, a threat turned worship.
He tastes like mint and something darker. He kisses like he listens—patience edged in hunger. When his tongue teases the seam of my lips, I open. When it slides against mine, a sound breaks loose from me that isn't pretty or polite. His hand finds the small of my back. Not dragging. Not forcing. Anchoring. My body tips into him without asking my brain for permission.
Every bad script I ever wrote about myself—that I'm ice, that I'm wrong, that my on switch doesn't exist—burns at the edges.
He pulls back an inch, breathing hard, forehead resting against mine like he doesn't trust his legs. "Tell me it meant nothing," he murmurs.
I can't.
I won't.
"I can't," I whisper.
His laugh is shattered and soft. He doesn't press for more. He doesn't take victory and turn it into conquest. He just stays there, holding my wrists like they're delicate, breathing with me like he's willing to teach my lungs how to work if that's what it takes.
"Good girl," he says against my mouth, the words a graze that makes my knees threaten treason.
I'm shaking when I step back. Not from fear.
From wanting more.
"I need…" Air. Space. A door I can close between kisses so I don't beg for more.
He reads my face. "Bathroom's through there." A tilt of his head toward an archway. "Shower. Take what you want. Take your time."
I turn, and my pulse trips when I see the neat stack of clothes on the chair—my size, my style, items I'd pick if I could splurge.Shit.I've been so consumed with him, I've barely acknowledged that I'm wearing his shirt. The long shirt hangs to my knees, and his scent clings to the fabric wrapped around me.
I say nothing about my state of undress; at least he left my underwear when he took my dignity. I gather the clothes he's laid out, breath still unsteady, mouth still tingling, and walk toward the doorway on trembling legs.
Behind me, he doesn't follow. He lets me go. Forcing me to question my disappointment.
Nikolai
Ihear her before I see her. It's useless pretending that I haven't been waiting with bated breath for her arrival. Not knowing when or if she'd even appear. When she does… My God.
The whisper of silk sliding over her thighs, the hush of her footsteps on marble. My hands curl into fists until my knuckles pop, because if I don’t hold myself together, I’ll drag her against the wall and take her now. I’ve faced men with guns pointed at my head and never flinched. But this girl? She makes my pulse hit like artillery fire.
Then she appears.
The world cuts to her.
Green silk clings like it was poured over her skin, neckline plunging low, sleeves sliding down her shoulders. Temptation dressed her, but she’s too innocent to know. She steps down slow, hips swaying against her will. She’s fire she doesn’t think she can feel.
She stops at the last step, eyes daring, arms crossed under her breasts. “Little much?” Her chin tips up toward the dress. “The dress, I mean.”
“No.” My voice is rough.
Her brows lift. “You didn’t even blink.”
“I’m not ready for you to disappear yet.”
