Page 20 of Bratva Baby

Heat floods my face, my chest.

“And those eyes,” he says, softer now, like he’s tasting the words. “You look at people like you’re deciding if they’re worth keeping alive. And tonight, you looked very hungry, Sofiya.”

My breath catches. His thumb presses lightly at my throat, right over my pulse. “And this,” he adds, almost under his breath. “You give everything away right here.”

“Is that a compliment?” I manage.

His mouth curves, dark and certain. “No.” His gaze drags lower again, deliberate, unashamed. “It’s me telling you exactly what I want to put my hands on first.”

My heart is racing.

“Does it please you?” he asks quietly.

God help me, it does, and all I manage is a helpless little nod. “Are you done with the philosophy?” I blurt out.

His eyes flash pure darkness. “You Leonidovs love to test men.” He shifts closer, heat pouring off him. “You test me, I take it as permission. There’s no going gentle once I start.”

“I didn’t ask for gentle,” I say, and I hate the way my voice shakes.

He studies me, seeing everything. “No,” he agrees softly. “You asked for the thing that should ruin us both.”

I lean in, breathing him in, hating how good it feels. “You’re very good at this, aren’t you?”

Anton’s lips curl and his voice dips. “Yes, perhaps, though I admit it’s easier with you considering I’ve been waiting since the ballroom to taste defiance on your tongue.”

My skin burns. “So do it.”

He makes a low, satisfied sound, hand tightening on my jaw. “You talk like a Leonidov princess and bait me like a Reznikov soldier.” His mouth brushes mine. I gasp. He drinks it in. “You don’t get to walk away tonight and pretend you didn’t ask.”

“Maybe I don’t want to walk away.”

He growls quietly, dragging his knuckles along my throat. “You have no idea how good that sounds.” His breath warms my lips. “I meant what I said. You looked colder in Moscow. I wanted to heat you up then.” His voice roughens. “Tonight, I’m not stopping.”

I press closer. My fingers find the lapel of his dark suit, fingers digging in, needing the solid reality of him. He slides his hand along my thigh, up, up, pausing at the edge of my hip.

“Look at me,” he commands.

“I am.”

His eyes lock on mine. “Say you know what you’re doing. Say you understand the danger.” The words are rough worship, reverent and destructive.

“I know exactly who you are,” I whisper. “You’re the enemy my family’s been warning me about since I could walk.”

“And?”

“And you’re the only man who’s made me feel alive in years.” The confession cuts between us. “I shouldn’t want you. I do anyway.”

He swallows. “Jesus, Sofiya.” His thumb presses harder into my throat. “Do you know how fucking beautiful you are when you tell the truth?”

Heat pools low in my belly. “Tell me what I am to you.”

His breath shudders. “You’re a curse I want to wear on my tongue. You’re the clean line I want to paint dirty.”

I bite my lip. It’s all the warning he needs. He groans quietly, claim and surrender mixed. “Goddamn it,” he mutters, voice dark caramel poured over sin.

His mouth descends. This kiss is worse than the one in the bar and better by an order of magnitude. He slants over me, tongue sweeping in to take and take while his hand cups the back of my neck, holding me exactly where he wants me.

I moan into his mouth, shameless and starving, matching him stroke for stroke. He’s mint and dark vodka and threat. He tastes like the wars our families are built on. My nails bite into his suit, dragging hard enough to feel the constructor lines of muscle underneath.