Page 36 of The Russian's Forced Bride
It wasn’t that I was afraid of him. I was afraid of what he’d do to Brandon if I admitted I was with him. Rafael Kamarov was a walking bomb. He held things in, and I could never tell when he would explode.
“I’m not a baby,” I began, but then he inched closer to me—too close.
“That man, Arlette. I need his name. And it doesn’t matter if you try to lie. I’ve watched you long enough to know you’re a terrible liar. And even if you don’t tell me, I’ll find him—and it’s up to you whether he lives or dies.”
“But he didn’t even do anything,” I cried out at the absurdity. “He’s—he’s my half-brother. He just wanted to see me.”
“Right.” Rafael nodded, chuckling darkly. “Your half-brother. And I thought I asked you not to leave this house until it was safe.”
He then lifted my chin, gently—yet I could feel the anger rolling off him in waves.
“I’m not a child, Rafael, and you’re not—”
I was cut short when he slammed his lips against mine.
The action was urgent and filled with a consuming rage that seemed to resonate with me as well.
It reminded me of our kiss in the cellar, but this one was different. I was angry too. I pushed hard against his body, with fire coursing through my veins and over our kiss.
And in just seconds, we were tearing each other’s clothes off, crashing into the furniture in the room as we each fought to take control over the other.
He didn’t bother being gentle with me as he bent me over the kitchen counter, pounding his already hard cock into my dripping pussy, which sucked in his full length.
Our breathless moans and groans filled the air, and skin slapped against skin as Rafael drove into me. Once again, his fingers found my clit, pinching and flicking as that ball of heat curled tighter and tighter. When we came, we did so together.
Chapter 11 – Rafael
The beat of a Taio Cruz song shook the glass in the VIP room where I was sitting, my eyes fixed below on the club’s main floor, a martini swirling in my hands.
Bodies of men and women dancing to the music appeared as dark silhouettes against the room’s dim lighting, with red and blue neon overhead lights flashing occasionally across the space, immersed in sin. In the center of the room, Arlette seductively swayed her hips to the music, her hands caressing the exposed skin of her body in her shimmering strapless dress.
I watched her—the way her body swayed to the music, almost teasing. Her fiery red hair, which was let loose, flowed down the curves of her body, stopping right above her heart-shaped ass. She looked enthralling under the lighting of the club, and I observed her every move, bewitched by her.
And it didn’t matter that the men lurking in the shadows watched hungrily too, because they knew she couldn’t be touched or approached. She was mine. They didn’t need to be told. They just knew.
I wasn’t too enthusiastic at first about letting her go clubbing with her best friend, Eleanor—the girl who was dancing in front of her, dark-haired and about a foot shorter than Arlette. But I knew I couldn’t keep her locked up forever either.
She had already run off to see her “half-brother.” The last thing I wanted was a repeat of that.
Even from afar, the presence of that boy irked me. Irritated me to the extent I knew I would’ve shot him dead if I had my Glock within my reach. I hadn’t seen his face clearly, but immediately after Arlette had slipped that he was someone who claimed to be related to her, I asked Maxim to check all records of a mystery brother.
I had only known Arlette to have one brother, and not only was he adopted, but he also lived all the way in New Jersey, only occasionally visiting Chicago whenever it involved his business.
But then Maxim pulled up with a load of information that proved Arlette was right. The kid went by the name Brandon Orozco. Apparently, Jaxon Whitmore had fucked a Spanish whore on one of his many visits to a high-end bar in Barcelona.
The knowledge that Arlette was right about Brandon being her brother didn’t change anything, though.
It made me even more suspicious about him. It didn’t make sense why he chose to appear right when Jaxon died. It was all too convenient.
I needed to learn more about him—and whatever the hell he was putting into Arlette’s head that made her risk her life by leaving the house when she clearly knew Joaquin’s men were secretly prowling around, waiting for the right moment to strike.
But if Arlette was going to trust me enough to talk about him, I had to give her all she wanted—hence the reason I didn’t mind her having a blast even whilst lustful men ogled at her. However, I was being tempted to rip out their eyes and shove them down the back of their throats until they choked to death.
But alas, violence was never the answer. As long as they didn’t cross the line, I stayed calm.
The door to the VIP room slowly creaked open, and Cassandra stepped inside, fully dressed for the occasion in a red backless dress that ended just above her knees. I had given her permission to have fun, too, but as she appeared, her expression didn’t look like someone who had been partying all night. She seemed hesitant as she shut the door and walked slowly toward me. I set my martini on the glass table in front of me.
“Talk.”
