Page 36 of Bratva Bride
We sit like that, sharing wine and silence. For the first time in weeks, I don’t feel like I’m suffocating.
The apartment is dark except for a single lamp in the living room, its low amber light spilling across the hardwood and throwing long shadows up the walls. I shut the door behind me and stand for a second, letting my eyes adjust. The smell of jasmine drifts in the air—Nadya’s perfume, subtle and unmistakable.
She steps out from the hallway, bare feet silent on the floorboards. Black lace clings to her body, the fabric sheer in places, opaque in others, drawing my gaze to every curve I’ve traced a hundred times in memory. Her hair is loose, spilling over her shoulders, and the soft light catches the shine along each strand. She doesn’t speak. She doesn’t need to. The faintesthint of a smile touches her lips, confident and inviting at the same time.
She says nothing, only watches me with that steady, unblinking gaze that has always managed to unravel me faster than any violence could.
Blood rushes to my groin, my body responding before I can process anything else. I’m half a step in when I stop, taking her in again, slower this time.
“You’ve been drinking,” she says, voice low, teasing.
“Not enough to imagine this,” I say, walking toward her.
She stops a pace away, close enough for me to see the fine detail of the lace, the way her breath lifts the edge of satin at her ribs. Her perfume drifts up, warm, faintly floral.
She closes the distance, her body almost pressed against mine, fingers still curled around my loosened tie. In the dim light, the lace outlines every dip and curve of her, and my mind goes blank for a second, hunger tightening low in my gut.
“Where have you been?” she asks, her voice low, almost gentle, but there’s an edge beneath it, one I can’t ignore.
I keep my gaze fixed on her mouth, not trusting myself to look her in the eye just yet. “Out,” I say, letting my hands slide to her waist, tracing the line of satin with my thumbs. “Business.”
Her lips quirk, as if she’s weighing how much she believes. “That all?”
I nod, finding it too easy to lie when she looks at me like this, like I’m the only man left in her world. “Meetings ran late. Nothing worth talking about.”
I tilt my head, brushing my mouth along her jaw, letting my hands roam lower, memorizing the shape of her beneath the lace. It’s easier to focus on the heat between us rather than what I left unsaid.
I sweep a loose lock of hair from her face and let my fingers trail along her shoulder strap, following the line of lace down to her waist. “Is Mila awake?” I ask, keeping my voice low even though the apartment is quiet.
“She’s out cold,” Nadya answers. “Long day at school. She barely made it through story time.”
I raise an eyebrow, slipping one hand beneath the fall of her hair. “And you’re sure about this? Lingerie in the hallway is a bold move.”
She smiles, heat flickering in her eyes. “I can take bold.”
That’s all the invitation I need. I draw her into my arms, feeling the soft press of satin and warm skin under my palms.
Our mouths find each other, slow at first—just the press of lips.
Then it deepens, her lips parting beneath mine, her tongue brushing lightly against mine, coaxing more from me.
My hands roam, kneading the curve of her hips, sliding up to feel the arch of her lower back. The lace bevels under my fingertips, delicate but eager. I let one hand glide upward, skimming the side of her breast through sheer fabric—she inhales sharply, body arching closer.
She slips my tie free, lets it fall, then works open the top buttons of my shirt with practiced urgency. Her nails graze my chest, sending a shot of heat through me. I capture her mouth again,this time hungry, pulling her tighter until I can feel the thrum of her heartbeat matching mine.
We stumble back toward the living room, never breaking the kiss. The dim lamp casts amber across her skin. I slide my hands down the silk-soft line of her thighs, lifting her just enough to carry her the last step to the edge of the couch. She leans back, pulling me with her, her laugh a soft ripple in the quiet.
“Risky enough for you?” she murmurs.
“Getting there,” I answer, letting my lips travel down her neck, across her collarbone, tasting the faint salt of her skin. My hands roam everywhere at once—caressing her stomach, squeezing her hips, tracing the inside of her thigh until she gasps and tightens her grip on my shoulders.
She reaches for me again, and the rest of the world slips out of focus. There’s only her warmth beneath lace, the way her body molds to mine, the low sounds she makes when my mouth finds sensitive skin.
I slide one arm beneath her knees, the other around her back, and lift her in a single motion. She lets out a soft laugh, looping her arms around my neck as I adjust my grip. Her weight feels perfect against me, all silk and warm skin and the faint scent of her shampoo.
Her body fits against mine, warm satin and lace pressed to shirt and skin, the faintest tremor running through her as I hold her off the floor.
I carry her down the short hallway toward the bedroom, the low light catching along her legs where the hem of the lingerie rides up. She looks up at me, eyes dark, lips parted, and for a breath, we don’t need words.
