Page 41 of Bratva Prisoner
“Alyssa,” he murmurs, and my name on his lips sounds like a prayer.
“We shouldn’t—”
“Tell me to stop,” he interrupts, though his voice is rough with want. “Tell me to stop, and I will.”
I open my mouth to do exactly that, but the words won’t come. Instead, I reach up and trace the line of his jaw with my fingertips, marveling at the way his eyes flutter closed at the simple touch.
“I can’t,” I admit.
“Can’t what?”
“Can’t tell you to stop.”
Something dark and hungry comes alive in his eyes, and before I can change my mind, his mouth is on mine. The kiss is reserved at first, gentle in the best of ways, like he’s giving me one last chance to pull away. When I don’t, when I instead inch closer and part my lips beneath his, he slides his tongue into my mouth with a groan that vibrates through my entire body.
His hands frame my face as he kisses me thoroughly, completely, like he’s trying to memorize how I taste. I lose myself in the sensation, in the way he touches me like I’m made of something rare and breakable.
When we finally break apart, we’re both gasping for air. My lips feel swollen, and there’s a heat building in my core that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with want.
“I’ve been wanting to do that since the moment I saw you in that back alley,” he confesses against my mouth.
“Just kiss me?”
His smile is wicked and full of promise. “That was just the beginning.”
Before I can ask what he means, he’s lifting me in his arms and carrying me toward the bedroom. My heart pounds with anticipation and nerves as he sets me down beside the massive bed.
“Are you sure?” he asks as his hands settle on my hips.
Instead of answering with words, I reach for the hem of his shirt and pull it over his head. The sight of his bare chest steals the breath from my lungs—hard muscle and tattoos and masculine beauty that makes my mouth go dry.
“Fuck, Alyssa,” he breathes, and then his mouth is on mine again.
This time, there’s nothing gentle about it. He kisses me like a man starving while his hands roam my body with a fervor that sets my skin on fire. When his fingers find the buttons of my blouse, I don’t stop him. I want this; I want him, more than I’ve ever wanted anything.
He works the buttons one by one, and his knuckles brush against my skin with each one he frees. The excitement is torture in the best possible way, and by the time he pushes the fabric off my shoulders, I’m trembling again—but not from fear.
“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers as his eyes drink in the sight of me in my bra. “So fucking perfect.”
He traces the curve of my shoulders before his fingers glide down my arms with a feather-light touch that makes my breath catch. The way he touches me is different from anyone before—like he’s memorizing every detail, every response. When he grazes the sensitive skin on my wrists, I shiver.
Then he moves his hands up to cup my breasts through the lace, and he brushes his thumbs over my nipples until they peak into pebbles under the fabric. I arch into his touch with a soft moan, and the sound seems to spur him into motion.
“Do you have any idea what you do to me?” he asks. His mouth finds the hollow of my throat, where he presses kisses that make my pulse race. “Every time you look at me, every time you say my name, I lose a little more control.”
I can feel that loss of control in the unsteadiness of his hands as they reach for the clasp of my bra, in the way his breathing has become uneven. It’s intoxicating to know I affect him this much, that this powerful man becomes undone by my touch.
The bra disappears with a few flicks of his wrist, and then his mouth is on me, hot and wet and demanding. I cry out, and my hands fist in his hair as he lavishes attention on my breasts. He takes his time, switching between gentle licks and suction until I’m gasping his name.
“I love the sounds you make,” he whispers between kisses. “I want to hear every one of them.” He nips at my nipple, and when I gasp, he does it again, harder this time. “That’s it, kitten. Don’t hold back.”
The praise makes heat flood through my body, collecting low in my belly. I’ve never been with someone who worshipped my responses like this, who seemed to take as much pleasure in my pleasure as their own.
“So responsive,” he murmurs against my skin. “I could spend hours just doing this.”
“Maksim, please.”
“Please, what, kitten? Tell me what you want.”
