Page 79 of Forced Marriage to the Cruel Bratva Pakhan

“We’re in this together.” The acknowledgment feels significant. “Whether I like how it started or not, we’re partners now. Your enemies are my enemies. Your survival is my survival.”

“What about your father?”

The question hangs heavy between us. “Is a problem we’ll deal with eventually. But right now, Kravin is the immediate threat.”

Pavel’s hand moves from the table to my waist, fingers spreading possessively across the curve. “You’re remarkable. You know that?”

“I’m practical.”

Heat is already building from his touch. “I’m tired of being passive while you handle everything alone. I have skills that are useful here. Intelligence you don’t have access to. Perspective that comes from growing up in the political world you’re trying to navigate.”

“I know.” His other hand comes up to cup my face, thumb brushing across my cheekbone. “I’m realizing that forcing you into this marriage might be the smartest strategic decision I’ve made in years. Even if that wasn’t the intention.”

“Careful.” I lean into his touch despite the warning in my voice. “That almost sounds like you’re admitting I’m valuable beyond being leverage against my father.”

“You are valuable.” He leans closer, his mouth near my ear. “For your intelligence. Your political insight. Your refusal to be diminished by circumstances that would break most people.”

“And?” I prompt, knowing there’s more he’s not saying.

“You’re the only person I trust completely despite every tactical reason to maintain suspicion.” His lips brush my throat. “Because you challenge me constantly while supporting the organization’s goals. Because you make me want things I never allowed myself to consider before.”

The admission makes my pulse quicken. “What kind of things?”

“Partnership that’s real instead of forced.” His hand slides from my waist to my hip, gripping with controlled pressure. “A future beyond just surviving the next crisis. Someone who understands both sides of my life: the violence and the strategy, the control and the vulnerability underneath.”

“That’s—” I struggle for words as his mouth finds the sensitive spot below my ear. “That’s a lot to want from someone you kidnapped.”

“I know.” He pulls back to look at me directly. “You’re here anyway. Contributing strategy instead of just accepting protection. Choosing to help instead of remaining passive. That means something, Serena.”

He captures my mouth in a kiss that’s more claim than question—possessive and demanding in ways that should probably concern me but instead just make heat pool low in my stomach.

I respond with equal intensity, my hands sliding up into his hair while I press closer. We’re still standing over the tactical map, surrounded by evidence of war and strategy, but all of that fades into background noise.

His hands move to my waist, lifting me slightly before turning me to face the table. “Bend forward,” he orders, his voice rough with want. “Hands flat on the map.”

The command makes my breath catch. I comply, bracing my palms against the scattered papers while he positions himself behind me. His hands slide up under my shirt, finding bare skin and making me shiver.

“We’re going to ruin your tactical assessment,” I manage.

“I don’t care.” His fingers work the button of my jeans, sliding the zipper down with deliberate slowness. “Right now, the only strategy that matters is figuring out how many times I can make you come before you beg me to stop.”

He peels my jeans and underwear down my thighs, not removing them completely, just lowering them enough to give him access. The restriction around my legs makes me feel even more exposed, more vulnerable.

“Oh!”

“Quiet.” One hand presses between my shoulder blades, keeping me bent over the table while the other slides between my thighs. “I want to hear you, but no words. Just the sounds you make when I touch you like this.”

His fingers find me already wet, circling my entrance with maddening precision but not pushing inside. I bite my lip to keep from begging, my hips trying to rock back against his hand.

“So eager.” He finally pushes two fingers inside, curling them to hit that spot that makes my knees weak. “We’re not rushing this. I’m going to take my time with you.”

He works me with expert precision, building pleasure with methodical attention while his other hand slides under my shirt to cup my breast. The dual stimulation makes coherent thought impossible.

Just when I think I can’t take anymore, when I’m trembling and desperate and right on the edge, he withdraws completely.

He’s working his own pants open now, and I hear the sound of fabric rustling. “I’ve been thinking about you all day, you know.”

Then he’s positioning himself, the head of his cock pressing against my entrance. He pushes inside slowly—agonizingly slowly—letting me feel every inch of his cock as he fills me completely.