Page 7 of Taken By The Bratva
"So what happens now?" she asks, and there's vulnerability in her voice that makes me want to promise her everything. "Do we pretend last night never happened, or do we figure out how to make this work despite all the very good reasons we shouldn't?"
Instead of answering with words, I roll her beneath me, settling between her thighs with a groan of primal satisfaction. The way she opens for me, welcomes me, her soft thighs parting in sensual invitation, makes me feel like I'm exactly where I belong. Her skin is like warm silk against mine, our bodies fitting together in perfect, carnal harmony. She arches subtly beneath me, her breasts pressing against my chest, nipples hardened with desire. The heat radiating from her core calls to something ancient and possessive within me, her eyes half-lidded and glazed with wanting as she writhes gently in anticipation of our joining.
"Does this feel like pretending?" I ask against her lips, sliding into her welcoming heat with one slow, deliberate thrust that makes us both gasp. My voice is rough with desire as I feel her slick warmth enveloping me completely, her inner muscles fluttering around my hardness in a sweet, intimate embrace.
"No," she breathes, arching beneath me in that way that drives me wild with want, her nipples brushing against my chest as her body undulates sensuously. Her eyes, heavy-lidded and dark with passion, lock with mine as her fingers dig into my shoulders. "It feels like the most real thing that's ever happened to me." Her confession comes in a sultry whisper against my mouth, her warm breath mingling with mine as her thighs tighten around my hips, drawing me deeper into her molten core.
As I move inside her, slow and deep and thorough, each languid thrust a wordless covenant between our bodies, I make silent promises about protection and permanence and building something real together. Her slick, velvety heat grips me with exquisite pressure, drawing me deeper into her sacred temple. My fingertips trace the dewy curve of her hip, feeling her tremble beneath my touch as our bodies dance in primal rhythm. Her body responds to mine like we've been lovers for years instead of hours, her legs wrapping around me with intuitive knowledge of exactly how to make me burn with desire, her inner muscles clenching around my hardness in a way that threatens to unravel my control completely. And when she comes apart beneath me, her back arching in sublime surrender, her lips parting in a breathless gasp that transforms into my name—calling it like a benediction, a prayer whispered in the temple of our joined bodies—I know I'm completely lost to her, consumed by this inferno we've created together, willingly sacrificing all I am to the altar of her pleasure.
"I have to go to work," she says later, after we've showered together and I've watched her get dressed with the reluctance of a man who never wants to let his woman out of his sight.
"Take the day off," I suggest, only half-joking. "I'll make it worth your while."
Her laugh is music to my ears. "As tempting as that sounds, some of us have responsibilities that don't involve family businesses and unlimited expense accounts."
The reminder of our different worlds should worry me more than it does. She's right—I have privileges and resources she doesn't, advantages that come from being born into this life rather than working for everything I have. But instead of making me feel guilty, it makes me want to give her everything she's ever wanted.
"Let me drive you," I say, already reaching for my keys on the nightstand, my fingers brushing against the cold metal with practiced familiarity. The thought of extending our time together, even for the brief drive to her workplace, feels utterly necessary.
"Maxim, we should probably be careful about being seen together," she says gently, her eyes reflecting genuine concern beneath long lashes. The practical worry in her voice hits me like cold water, dousing the warm afterglow of our intimacy. "Last night was incredible, absolutely mind-blowing, but your world and mine... they exist in completely different orbits, with different rules and expectations."
"What about them?" I ask, my tone deliberately casual despite the sudden tightness in my chest. Though I know exactly what she means—the invisible but unmistakable boundaries betweenour social circles, the potential complications, the whispers that would inevitably follow if we were discovered together.
"You know what I mean." She moves closer, pressing her palm against my chest over my heart. "I serve drinks to your brother's associates. If they think I'm sleeping with you..."
She doesn't finish the sentence, but she doesn't need to. I understand the implications, the ways our relationship could be viewed as improper or used against both of us. But looking into her brown eyes, seeing the uncertainty there, I make a decision that surprises me with its clarity.
"Then we'll be careful," I tell her, covering her hand with mine, feeling the warmth of her skin against my palm. "But I'm not walking away from this. From you. Not when we've barely begun. We'll figure out how to make it work, no matter what obstacles appear in our path."
The smile that spreads across her face is radiant, lighting up her entire countenance, and she rises on her toes to kiss me softly, her lips gentle yet purposeful against mine. "I don't want to walk away either," she admits, her voice a mixture of vulnerability and determination. "Even though every rational part of my brain is screaming warnings and flashing danger signals like a malfunctioning traffic light."
"Good," I say, pulling her closer until I can feel the contours of her body against mine, my arms encircling her waist possessively. "Because I plan to spend considerable time convincing your irrational side to override the rational one. I can be very persuasive when properly motivated."
After she leaves, I stand at my penthouse windows looking out over the city and thinking about everything that's changed inthe span of twelve hours. Last night I was a man who kept his personal life simple and separate from family business. Today I'm planning ways to protect and cherish a woman who could complicate everything I've worked to build.
And for the first time in my life, I couldn't care less about the complications.
7
BROOKLYN
Three weeks of secret meetings, stolen kisses, and the most incredible sex of my life, and I'm starting to feel like Maxim's guilty secret instead of his girlfriend. Every encounter has to be carefully orchestrated—text messages sent from burner phones, meetings in hotel rooms or his penthouse when he's sure no one will see us, rushed conversations in empty conference rooms that always end with his hands in my hair and my back against the wall.
I tell myself he's protecting me, that discretion is necessary for my safety in his dangerous world. But the rational explanations are getting harder to swallow when I feel more like a mistress than a partner, more like something shameful he needs to hide than something precious he wants to claim.
The breaking point comes during tonight's poker game, and it's worse than usual. One of the newer players—some young hotshot trying to impress Dimitri—has been making increasingly vulgar comments since he walked through the door. Comments about my body, about what he'd like to do to "thehelp," crude suggestions that make my skin crawl even as I maintain my professional smile.
"Maybe when we're done here, the waitress can stick around for some private service," he says with a lewd grin, his eyes raking over my chest in a way that makes me want to shower. "I tip very generously for extra attention."
The other players shift uncomfortably, but no one says anything. This is the game they all play—pushing boundaries, testing limits, seeing how far they can go before someone pushes back. I've dealt with men like this before, know how to deflect and redirect without causing a scene.
What I don't expect is the way my eyes automatically seek out Maxim, looking for some sign of support, some indication that he'll stand up for me the way he did with Viktor weeks ago.
Instead, he sits there with carefully controlled features, his hands steady on his cards, giving no indication that he even heard the crude suggestion. He's playing his role perfectly—the uninvolved businessman who doesn't get worked up over the hired help.
But I see the tension in his jaw, the white-knuckled grip on his cards, the dangerous glitter in his dark eyes. He's furious, but he's not going to do anything about it. Not here, not publicly, not in a way that might expose whatever it is we have together.
"I'll get everyone fresh drinks," I say calmly, collecting empty glasses with hands that aren't quite steady. Professional to the end, even when my heart is breaking.
