Page 89 of The Cold Bratva King and His Forced Curvy Bride

“Harder,” I demand.

“No.”

“Please.”

He sets a rhythm that is designed to drive me insane. He’s hitting every nerve ending, every sensitive spot. The pleasure is building again, tighter and higher than before.

“Look at me,” he commands.

I open my eyes, looking up at him. His expression is fierce, possessive. He groans, his control finally snapping. He grabs my hips, his fingers bruising, and starts to pound into me.

The sound of our bodies moving together fills the room, mingling with the storm outside. It’s wild, primal.

I meet him thrust for thrust, rising to meet him. The pressure is unbearable, a coil tightening in my belly.

“I’m close,” I gasp.

“Come with me.”

He reaches between us, his thumb finding my clit. He rubs it in time with his thrusts.

I explode. My vision whites out. My body clamps down around him, pulsing and rippling. I scream his name, a sound of pure ecstasy.

He follows me over, his body tensing as he finds his release. He buries his face in my neck, groaning my name as he pours himself into me.

Eventually, he pulls away, adjusting his clothes. I slide off the counter, my legs weak. I have to hold onto him to keep from falling.

He wraps his arms around me, holding me up.

“You okay?”

“Never better.”

He leads me to the living room. The sheets on the furniture cast ghostly shapes in the low light. He pulls one off a couch, shaking the dust off, and sits down, pulling me into his lap.

I curl up against him, my head resting on his chest. I can hear his heartbeat, slow and steady.

I trace the line of his collarbone with my finger.

“What was this place?” I ask softly.

“A safe house like I said.”

“But for whom?”

“For the Pakhan. My father, and eventually for me.” He runs his hand up and down my spine, a soothing, rhythmic motion. “He used to bring me here,” he continues, his voice low. “When things got… too much. When the politics got ugly. We’d sit in the dark, just like this, and he’d teach me about money and control.”

“Control,” I repeat.

“It’s the only thing that matters,” he says. “If you lose control, you lose everything. Your life. Your family. Your legacy.”

“Did he lose control?”

“Eventually.” His voice tightens. “He got sentimental. He trusted the wrong people, and it killed him.”

I lift my head to look at him. His expression is guarded, his eyes distant.

I look at him, really look at him. The monster. The killer. The man who holds my brother’s life in his hands. I see the man underneath. The man who is just as trapped as I am.