Page 25 of His Stolen Bride

“Come for me, Alina,” I growl, my voice rough with restraint. “Now.”

She does, hard and suddenly, her cry muffled as she buries her face in the sheets, her body shaking under me. I slow down just enough to let her ride it out, but I’m nowhere near done. I pull out, ignoring the way my own body protests, and flip her onto her back with a quick, firm grip on her hips. Her eyes are glassy, her chest heaving as she looks up at me, lips parted like she’s trying to catch her breath. She’s beautiful like this, undone and flushed, and I can’t look away.

“You’re not done,” I tell her, my voice a low rumble as I position myself between her thighs again. Her legs fall open for me without hesitation, and the sight of her, so willing despite the fire in her eyes, sends a surge of heat through me.

“Didn’t think I was,” she snaps back, her voice breathy but still edged with that defiance I fucking love.

I smirk, darkly and hungrily, as I push into her again, harder this time. Her head tilts back, a moan slipping out as I set a punishing rhythm, each thrust meant to drive her beyond thought. My hands grip her thighs, pushing them wider, and I watch her face, the way her brows knit and her mouth falls open with every movement. She’s gorgeous, even when she’s furious, her dark hair a mess against the sheets, her skin glowing with sweat. I’m not a man who gets lost in beauty, but with her, it’s hard not to notice every damn detail.

I lean down, capturing her mouth in a bruising kiss, swallowing her gasps as I keep driving into her. Her hands claw at my shoulders, nails biting into my skin, and I welcome the sting. It keeps me grounded, keeps me from losing myself too soon. I want more from her, want to see her break again. I pull back from the kiss, my thumb finding her clit once more, rubbing in tight circles as I thrust harder.

“Oh, God,” she chokes out, her voice cracking as her hips jerk under me. “Mikhail—fuck, I can’t⁠—”

“You can,” I cut her off, my tone sharp, commanding. “And you will.”

Her second climax hits almost violently, her body arching off the bed as she cries out, louder this time, her hands fisting the sheets. I grit my teeth, fighting my own release as I feel her pulse around me, tight and hot. I slow down for a moment, letting her come down, but I’m not giving her much of a break. I’m too far gone for that.

I pull out again, my chest tight with need, and manhandle her onto her side, lifting one of her legs over my shoulder as I settle behind her. The new angle makes her gasp, her eyes fluttering shut as I push back in, slow at first to let her feel the stretch. My hand grips her hip hard, keeping her in place as I start moving again, each thrust deeper, hitting spots that make her whimper.

“Look at me,” I order, my voice rough as I tilt her chin toward me with my free hand. Her eyes snap open, meeting mine, and the raw vulnerability there almost undoes me. But there’s still that spark of anger, that fight, and it pushes me harder.

“You’re killing me,” she mutters, her voice ragged, but there’s no real venom in it. Not now.

“Good,” I reply, my tone dark as I pick up the pace, driving into her with a rhythm that’s almost brutal. “I want you breathless.”

Her hand reaches back, grabbing at my thigh like she’s trying to anchor herself, and I feel her building again, her breaths coming in short, desperate pants. I don’t let up, my fingers digging into her skin as I push her toward that edge one more time. I want her spent, completely wrecked beneath me, and I’m not stopping until I get it.

“Come again,” I growl, my voice barely human now as I feel my own control slipping. “Let me feel it.”

She does, her body locking tight around me as a broken moan tears from her throat, her third release hitting her like a wave. She’s trembling, utterly breathless, her chest heaving as she tries to pull air into her lungs. The sight of her like this, so completely undone, pushes me past my limit. I thrust hard a few more times, chasing my own peak, and then I’m there, a low, guttural sound escaping me as I spill into the condom, my grip on her hip tightening hard enough to bruise.

For a moment, I stay where I am, my body pressed against hers as I catch my breath, the aftershocks still rippling through me. She’s limp beneath me, her breaths shallow and uneven, her skin slick with sweat. I pull out slowly, careful not to hurt her, and roll the condom off, tossing it into the bin by the bed. Then I collapse beside her, one arm sliding over her waist to pull her close, not because I’m soft, but because I’m not ready to let go yet.

She doesn’t push me away, which surprises me. Instead, she just lies there, her chest still rising and falling too fast, her eyes half-closed. I watch her for a moment, taking in the way her lips are swollen from my kisses, the faint marks on her skin from my hands. She looks wrecked, and I feel a twisted sort of satisfaction at that. I did this to her. I made her forget, at least for a little while.

“You okay?” I ask, my voice quieter now, though it’s still rough around the edges.

She lets out a weak laugh, not even opening her eyes. “Do I look okay?”

I smirk, brushing a strand of hair off her face with more gentleness than I mean to show. “You look perfect.”

Her eyes flutter open at that, narrowing slightly like she’s not sure if I’m mocking her. I’m not. I mean it, though I won’t say it again. Instead, I tighten my hold on her waist, keeping her pressed against me as I let the silence settle. I’m not done with her—not by a long shot—but for now, this is enough.

She falls asleep against me without warning.

One moment she’s tense, breaths uneven, body still braced for loss, and the next, the weight of her gives in. Her fingers loosen. Her breathing evens out. Whatever kept her upright finally lets go.

I don’t mistake it for trust.

I stay still until I’m sure she’s asleep, then I ease out from under her carefully and cover her. She doesn’t stir. Her face in sleep looks stripped of the defiance she wears awake, and that makes something tight settle in my chest.

Loneliness does that. It lowers defenses faster than fear ever could.

I leave the room quietly and close the door behind me.

In my office, the register waits where I left it. I don’t need to reread the whole thing. I turn straight to the pages that matter. Sergei’s entry is clean, finalized, confident. The second promise is not. Instead, it’s delayed and conditional, held in reserve.

That’s not panic. Alina won’t see reason about her father, but the truth is that the man was a cowardly bastard who strategized how selling his daughter would buy him the maximum profit. I extend my arms on the desk, bring them up, and wipe my face in an effort to loosen the knots between my brows, on my forehead, my mouth.