Page 48 of Bratva Baby

That grin of his is pure male sin. “Not happening.” Then he kisses me.

Mouth on mine, hand at the back of my neck, body pressing mine into the edge of the table so the plates rattle behind me. I make a sound against his mouth that I’m never going to forgive myself for, and he takes advantage of it instantly, deepening the kiss until I’m holding onto his sweater with both hands and leaning into him like I’ve been starving for exactly this.

He breaks it only to breathe and drag his mouth along my jaw. “You’ve been a problem since Prague,” he says against my skin.

“You say that like you’re not one.”

He pulls back enough to look at me, eyes hot. “I’m a much bigger one.”

The bed is three steps away, the food is still hot on the table, and every decent decision I could make leaves the room before I do.

15

SOFIYA

Anton keeps his shoulders loose, but there’s tension buzzing under his skin like an exposed wire that could catch us both on fire. “You going to strip out of those wet clothes,” he asks, “or just stand there shaking?”

I kick off my boots and pry the mud-caked trousers down my legs, peeling the damp material away from my skin, hating how cold I feel without them, hating that his eyes darken as he watches me like I’m his reward for surviving another ambush. The linen shirt clings to me, half-buttoned, stuck at the waist.

I tug it over my head and fling it aside, leaving me in a black bra and panties that survived the chase better than my patience. Anton steps closer, shrugging off his coat, then his sweater, until he stands bare-chested, scars cutting pale lines across his skin, the muscles in his shoulders flexing with suppressed fury.

“You look like something I should pray to,” he says roughly.

“Try touching me first, Reznikov,” I snap, “then worry about worship.”

His hand catches my jaw. “Bossy little witch,” he murmurs, voice drenched in hunger. “You don’t know how much I like your mouth when you’re threatening me.”

“I want you angry,” I tell him, pressing my nails into his wrist. “I want you fucking me like they almost kept you from reaching me.”

His eyes flare, something savage and tender tangled together, and his grip tightens. “You want angry? You want me reminding you who dragged you out of Budapest?”

He drives me back until I’m pressed against the wardrobe, breath punched out of me, the wood hard against my spine. He pins my wrists above my head, ropes of muscle tightening in his forearms, chest brushing my breasts until my nipples pebble under the thin lace.

“Try me,” I hiss.

He kisses me like he’s biting my heart out, teeth catching my lip, tongue sweeping in to taste the copper tang of blood he just drew. I groan into his mouth, “Ahh, fuck.” And he swallows it, forcing his thigh between mine to grind against my pussy. The lace is soaked, my clit throbbing. I roll my hips, desperate, rubbing myself on his leg like I’m feral, and he laughs darkly.

“Need it that bad?” he taunts.

I yank one wrist free, grab the back of his head, and drag him in again. “You get off on making me beg,” I breathe against his lips. “Here it is. Give me that cock, Anton.”

“Fucking hell,” he growls. He slides his hand down, drags my panties aside, and drives two fingers into me. I throw my head back, nails raking his shoulder. The stretch is perfect, angles deep, his palm grinding my clit. He pistons his fingers in and out, knuckles slamming my entrance, wrist relentless. Wet sounds fill the cramped room, obscene and hungry.

“You feel this?” he snarls in my ear. “That soaked, tight pussy choking my fingers? That’s mine.” He thrusts harder. “Mine to protect. Mine to fuck. Mine to break.”

“Fuck you,” I gasp, clenching around him. “Fuck you for thinking you own me.”

He curls his fingers, hits that tender spot, and my knees buckle. “Oh, God, Anton.” He hammers me, thumb circling my clit, mindless pleasure crashing through me.

“Come on,” he urges. “Scream for me. Give it up.”

I shatter, release ripping through me as I wail his name. “Anton! Fuck—” My pussy spasms, soaking his hand, thighs shaking. He keeps pumping, milking the orgasm until I’m swearing and clawing at his chest to make him stop. He withdraws, glistening, and brings his fingers to my mouth.

“Clean me,” he commands.

I see red. I grab his wrist and suck his fingers down, tongue swirling, tasting my own slick. He groans, eyes hooded. “You look perfect doing that,” he says. I bite down, not enough to hurt, enough to warn, and he laughs under his breath. “You’re such a vicious little princess.”

He shoves me toward the bed. “Hands and knees,” he orders.