Page 4 of Taken By The Bratva
"Right. Late." I can barely form coherent thoughts, let alone words. My body hums with unfulfilled desire, and I have to resist the urge to grab his shirt and pull him back to me.
"Brooke." My name on his lips sounds like a prayer and a promise, his voice caressing each syllable with an intensity that makes my heart race against my ribcage. "This isn't over. Not by a long shot."
"I hope not," I reply, surprised by my own boldness, the words escaping before I can censor them, hanging in the charged air between us like an invitation I'm not quite ready to take back.
After he leaves, I stand alone in the empty restaurant, my body still tingling with awareness and my core aching with need. I finish loading the dishwasher with hands that aren't quite steady, trying to process what just happened between us.
The sexual tension that's been building just reached a breaking point, and I can feel everything shifting between us. Whatever game we've been playing just got a lot more serious, a lot more dangerous, and infinitely more thrilling.
As I lock up and walk to my car, I can't stop thinking about the promise in his voice when he said this isn't over. My body is still humming with awareness, still craving his touch, still imagining what it would feel like to have those elegant hands exploring every inch of my skin.
I drive home through the quiet Brooklyn streets, windows down to cool my overheated skin, but nothing can ease the ache he's left me with. Tonight was a preview of something bigger, something that could change everything between us.
And despite all the very rational reasons I should be cautious—the dangerous world he moves in, the professional boundaries we'd be crossing, the certainty that men like him don't do forever with women like me—I can't bring myself to care about any of it.
I want him. Desperately, completely, with a hunger that's been building for months and threatens to consume me entirely.
The question is: what am I willing to risk to have him?
4
MAXIM
Iwatch Brooke work with the focused efficiency that characterizes everything she does, and every innocent movement drives me closer to the edge of my self-control. The way she bends to load the dishwasher gives me a perfect view of her curves in that tight skirt, and I have to grip the edge of the counter to keep from walking over there and pressing myself against her from behind.
She's humming softly under her breath—some melody I don't recognize—and the unconscious sound combined with the way she unconsciously sways her hips is pure torture. I've been coming up with excuses to stay after poker games for weeks, telling myself it's just being helpful while really craving these stolen moments when her professional mask slips and I glimpse the real woman underneath.
Tonight feels different, though. More charged. Like we're both teetering on the edge of something that could change everything between us.
"Tell me about your MBA program," I say, genuinely curious but also needing the distraction before I do something stupid likepin her against the nearest wall and find out if she tastes as good as she looks.
Her face lights up as she describes her thesis on emerging markets in Eastern Europe, and I'm captivated by more than just her intelligence. It's the passionate way she gestures when she talks about something she loves, how her eyes sparkle with excitement, the unconscious way she bites her lower lip when she's thinking through a complex concept.
Most people in my world assume the children of powerful families coast through life on name recognition and trust funds. But Brooke is working two jobs to pay for her education, building something entirely her own without family money or connections to smooth the way. There's something deeply attractive about that kind of determination and independence.
"What kind of consulting firm do you want to start?" I ask, moving closer under the pretense of helping her stack plates.
"Something focused on helping small businesses navigate international markets," she says, her voice warming with enthusiasm. "Most of them can't afford the big consulting firms, but they have incredible products and just need guidance on expansion strategies."
"That's brilliant," I tell her, and I mean it. "You'd be helping level the playing field, giving smaller companies access to expertise that's usually reserved for major corporations."
She looks surprised by my genuine interest, and I realize that most people probably don't take her seriously. The thought irritates me more than it should—this woman has a brilliant mind and ambitious plans, and anyone who can't see that is an idiot.
The moment shifts dangerously when she reaches across me to grab a wine glass from the high shelf, her breasts brushing against my chest in a contact that's brief but electric. She freezes, looking up to find my face inches from hers, and the hunger in her eyes matches my own devastating need.
Her lips are parted, swollen with desire, pupils dilated into black pools that swallow the rich brown of her irises. I can feel the rapid, erratic flutter of her pulse beneath my thumb as it traces lazy patterns across the delicate skin of her inner wrist, each beat a silent confession of want. The scent of her perfume—something light and floral with hints of jasmine and warm vanilla—mingles seductively with the lingering aroma of expensive Cuban cigars and aged whiskey from the poker game, creating an intoxicating blend that makes my head swim with primitive need. Her skin radiates a delicious warmth that draws me closer, making me crave the taste of her, wondering if her mouth would carry the subtle sweetness of the wine she's been sipping all evening.
"Maxim," she whispers, and my name sounds like both question and invitation, like surrender and challenge all rolled into one breathless syllable.
I'm hovering on the edge of crossing every professional boundary I've ever maintained, of lifting her onto this counter and claiming her mouth while my hands explore every curve I've been fantasizing about for months. The air between us crackles with sexual tension so thick I can barely think straight, and when her tongue darts out to wet her lips, my control nearly shatters completely.
My fingers itch to trace the delicate arc of her collarbone, to follow that tantalizing path downward where her silk blouse clings to the swell of her breasts. I imagine the gasp she'dmake against my lips as I pressed her against the cool marble, the heat of her body melting into mine. The wine glass still dangles forgotten from her fingertips, and I envision taking it, setting it aside, then replacing it with my touch—firm yet reverent, possessive yet worshipful. Her perfume envelops me like a narcotic, clouding my judgment with promises of ecstasy if I'd just surrender to this magnetic pull between us. Her breath comes in shallow little pants that match my own labored breathing, each exhale a silent plea that makes my hardened body throb with need.
"You have no idea what you do to me," I murmur, my voice rougher than I intended. My hands frame her face, thumbs tracing her cheekbones with devastating gentleness that contrasts sharply with the primitive need clawing at my chest.
"Show me," she challenges, her voice barely above a whisper but carrying enough heat to set my blood on fire.
Christ, she's going to be the death of me. The combination of innocence and seduction in her voice, the way she looks at me like I'm something she wants to unwrap slowly and thoroughly—it's driving me insane with want.
