Page 66 of Bratva Baby

“Sofiya,” he says against my mouth.

“What?”

“That shirt is a problem.”

I glance down. It’s one of his again. Soft, big, worn open at the throat. His eyes follow the movement and then come back to my face with the kind of look that makes my whole body pull tight.

“You are not making this easier,” I say.

“That wasn’t the goal.”

His mouth leaves mine just long enough to drag along my jaw and down my throat. My fingers tighten in his hair. “We should stop,” I say, and it comes out breathless enough to prove I don’t mean it.

“No.”

“We have work.”

“So did we in Prague.”

I laugh into his shoulder, and he takes advantage of the angle to kiss my neck again, open-mouthed now, and I swear under my breath when my knees nearly go. “That’s unfair.”

He lifts his head. “Life is hard.”

“You’re disgusting.”

“And you’re wet.”

My whole face burns. “Anton.”

His grin is pure male trouble. I shove at his chest and he catches both my wrists in one hand and kisses me again like he enjoys every second of me fighting him even when he already knows where it ends.

“Tell me to stop, then,” he says.

I look at him. Really look at him.

Big, dark, far too handsome, shirt collar open, eyes full of that dangerous amusement he gets when he knows exactly what he’s doing to me and enjoys the answer.

He came home carrying Brotherhood pressure and a deadline wrapped around his throat, and he still walked into the library, told me the truth, listened when it mattered, and took me seriously when I gave him something useful.

What undoes me the most isn’t his mouth or even his hands, but his respect. So I do the only thing I can and pull one hand free and hook my fingers in his shirt instead. “Don’t be gentle.”

His eyes go dark at once. “That I can do.”

He kisses me again, and this time, when he lifts me onto the edge of the desk, neither of us pretends this is going to stop at kissing.

20

SOFIYA

Anton’s mouth is still on mine when my spine hits the desk, paper crinkling beneath me. The office lights catch the edge of his watch, throwing stray cold glints across warm skin and darker intent.

He tastes like the expensive liquor I made fun of hours ago and the kind of possessiveness that would be annoying if it didn’t pour straight down my throat and catch low and hot in my belly.

“You taste smug,” I whisper against his lips.

“You taste like you’re still deciding whether to let me eat you alive.”

“I already did.”