Page 5 of Taken By The Bratva
I lean closer, until our foreheads are almost touching, until we're breathing the same air. "If I start showing you what you do to me, I won't be able to stop," I warn her, my voice dropping to a growl that surprises us both with its intensity.
"Maybe I don't want you to stop," she replies, and the bold admission sends heat shooting straight to my groin.
The sound of the kitchen staff leaving through the back door breaks the spell, their laughter and conversation a sharp reminder of where we are and all the reasons this can't happen.Not here, not like this, rushed and desperate in my brother's restaurant where anyone could walk in and find us.
But the promise in her eyes tells me it's not a matter of if anymore—it's a matter of when. The anticipation is killing us both, building to a crescendo that will have to break soon before it destroys what's left of my sanity.
I step back reluctantly, putting necessary distance between us though every instinct I have screams at me to close that gap and claim what I want. What I need. The few inches between us feel like a vast, painful chasm that my body aches to bridge.
"We should be careful," I say, though the words taste like ash in my mouth, bitter and hollow against the sweetness of what could be. My hands clench at my sides to keep from reaching for her.
"Should we?" she asks, tilting her head in a way that makes her look younger, more vulnerable, but no less determined. Her eyes darken with desire, pupils dilating as they hold mine steadily. "Or should we stop pretending we don't want each other? This game we're playing—it's exhausting, isn't it?"
The direct challenge in her voice makes my cock throb painfully against the confines of my pants. She's right—we've been dancing around this attraction for months, playing games and maintaining professional distance that's become increasingly meaningless.
"This is complicated," I manage to say, though my body is screaming at me to forget about complications and take what she's offering. My voice sounds strained even to my own ears, thick with barely restrained desire that threatens to overwhelm my last shreds of rational thought.
"Everything worth having is complicated," she replies, her brown eyes steady on mine, unwavering and filled with a quiet confidence that makes my pulse quicken. The warm amber flecks in her irises catch the dim light as she studies my face. "The question is whether you think I'm worth the complications. Worth whatever consequences might come after we cross this line."
Before I can answer—before I can tell her that she's worth any complication, any risk, any consequence that comes with wanting her—she's moving past me toward the door, her hip brushing against mine in passing.
"Good night, Maxim," she says softly, and there's something in her voice that sounds like a promise.
After she leaves, I stand alone in the empty restaurant, my body tight with unfulfilled need and my mind racing with possibilities. The scent of her perfume lingers in the air, and I can still feel the phantom touch of her skin against mine.
This woman is going to drive me to distraction, and I'm beginning to think I don't care. The careful control I've maintained for years is crumbling under the weight of my want for her, and for the first time in my life, I'm considering throwing caution to the wind for a chance at something real.
Something that could either be the best decision I've ever made or destroy everything I've worked to build.
Right now, looking at the empty doorway where she disappeared, I'm leaning toward thinking it would be worth the risk.
5
BROOKLYN
The next week's poker game runs later than usual—a high-stakes tournament that has the players more competitive and crude than normal. By midnight, I've endured increasingly inappropriate comments with professional grace, but I can see Maxim's tension ratcheting higher with each disrespectful remark. His knuckles are white where he grips his cards, and there's a dangerous glitter in his dark eyes that makes my pulse race with more than just anger.
"Maybe our lovely waitress should stick around after we're done," Viktor suggests with a lewd grin, his eyes raking over my body in a way that makes my skin crawl. "Provide some additional entertainment for the winners."
The crude suggestion hangs in the air like poison, and I feel every man at the table shift their attention to me. Some look uncomfortable, others intrigued, but all of them are watching to see how I'll respond.
Before I can form a professional deflection, Maxim's chair scrapes back so violently I think he might actually start a fight right here at the poker table.
"That's enough," he says quietly, but his voice carries deadly warning that makes even Viktor pause mid-leer. The room goes silent, tension crackling like electricity before a storm. For a moment, I see past the charming businessman facade to the dangerous man underneath—someone capable of violence when pushed too far, and the glimpse of that barely leashed power sends unexpected heat shooting through my core.
"Easy there, Maxim," Viktor backpedals, raising his hands in mock surrender, but there's unmistakable malicious satisfaction glittering in his eyes at having successfully provoked such a visceral reaction. His thin lips curl into a smirk that doesn't reach his cold gaze. "Just making conversation, that's all."
"Find a different topic," Maxim replies, his voice still carrying that lethal edge that seems to drop the temperature in the room by several degrees. His jaw clenches visibly beneath his perfectly trimmed stubble. "Now. Before I decide this game is over for you permanently."
The game continues with strained civility after that, but I can feel the undercurrent of violence humming through the room. When I serve Maxim his next drink, his fingers brush mine deliberately, and the contact sends reassurance flooding through me along with the familiar electric awareness.
After the players finally leave—Viktor grumbling about Maxim's "sensitivity" while the others exchange knowing looks—I find myself alone with him in the charged aftermath. The air between us feels combustible, months of suppressed desire finally reaching the breaking point.
His jacket is gone, shirt sleeves rolled up to reveal strong forearms, hair slightly mussed from running his hands throughit in frustration. He looks like sin personified, and I can barely think straight with the way he's looking at me.
"You didn't have to defend me," I say, though warmth spreads through my chest at the memory of how quickly he shut down Viktor's disgusting suggestion. No one has ever stood up for me like that, treated my dignity as something worth protecting.
"Yes, I did." He moves closer, backing me against the bar until I'm trapped between the polished wood and his powerful body. The heat from him makes me dizzy with want, and I have to grip the edge of the bar to keep my knees from buckling. "I can't stand watching them look at you like you're something they can buy. You're worth so much more than their crude fantasies."
