Page 9 of Bride of the Bratva King (Blood & Bride #1)

Chapter eight

The Morning After

A lexei

I wake up before dawn with Mila's naked body pressed against my side, her dark hair spread across my chest like silk.

For a moment, I don't move. Don't breathe. Don't do anything that might disturb this perfect scene and remind me that it's real.

My wife. In my bed. Claimed and satisfied and mine in every way that matters.

The wedding ring on her finger catches the early morning light streaming through the windows, and something primal and possessive unfurls in my chest. She chose me last night. Not because she had to, not because I forced her, but because she wanted to.

The memory of her hands on my body, her voice saying I'm yours , the way she came apart under my touch—it's enough to make me hard again despite the fact that we barely slept.

She stirs against me, making a soft sound that goes straight to my cock. Her leg shifts, sliding higher up my thigh, and I have to bite back a groan.

Patience , I tell myself. She's probably sore from last night. She needs sleep, needs time to process what happened between us.

But then her eyes flutter open, and she looks up at me with a sleepy smile that makes my heart stutter.

"Good morning, husband," she says, her voice husky with sleep.

"Good morning, little wife."

She stretches like a cat, arching against me in a way that presses her breasts against my chest and makes coherent thought impossible. When she settles back down, she's smiling like she knows exactly what she's doing to me.

"What time is it?" she asks.

I glance at the clock on the nightstand. "Six-thirty."

"Early."

"I'm always up early. Habit from the business."

"The criminal business or the legitimate business?"

The question catches me off guard. Most people in my world don't make that distinction, don't acknowledge that there's a difference between the two sides of what I do.

"Both," I say honestly. "Early meetings, early threats, early opportunities. Success doesn't sleep in."

She traces lazy patterns on my chest with her fingertip, and the simple touch sends heat shooting through me. "Do you have early meetings today?" she asks.

"Not until nine."

"So we have time."

"Time for what?" She looks up at me through her lashes, and the heat in her dark eyes makes my breath catch. "To continue what we started last night."

Christ. This woman is going to kill me.

"Mila," I say, trying to be responsible even though every cell in my body is screaming at me to roll her under me and remind her exactly who she belongs to. "You're probably sore. Last night was—"

"Amazing," she interrupts. "And I'm fine. Better than fine."

To prove her point, she shifts until she's straddling my hips, the heat of her pressed against my already hard cock. The sensation makes me grip her thighs and fight not to thrust up against her. "See?" she says with a wicked smile. "Perfectly fine."

"You're playing with fire."

"Good. I like the heat." She grinds against me slowly, deliberately, and I can feel how wet she is through the thin barrier of skin between us. The knowledge that she wants me, that her body is ready for me again so soon, snaps the last of my restraint.

I flip us in one smooth motion, pinning her under me and watching her eyes go wide with surprise and arousal.

"Careful what you ask for, little wife," I growl against her ear. "You might just get it."

"Promise?"

The single word is my undoing. I claim her mouth in a kiss that's hungry and demanding, pouring all of my possessive need into the connection between us. She responds with equal fire, her nails digging into my shoulders as she arches against me.

"Shower," I mutter against her lips. "I want you in the shower."

"Why?"

"Because I want to wash every inch of you. And then I want to make you come against the tile while the water runs over us."

Her sharp intake of breath tells me she likes the idea. A lot.

I lift her easily, carrying her to the master bathroom that's bigger than most people's bedrooms. Floor-to-ceiling windows look out over the gardens, but they're privacy glass. No one can see in, but we can see out.

The shower is a work of art—marble and glass and rainfall showerheads that turn the whole space into a personal oasis. I turn on the water and adjust the temperature while Mila looks around with wide eyes.

"This is bigger than my old apartment," she says.

"Everything here is yours now," I tell her. "The house, the cars, the accounts. All of it."

"I don't want your money."

"It's not about what you want. It's about what you deserve."

I pull her under the spray, and she gasps as the warm water cascades over her skin. She's even more beautiful wet with her skin flushed and gleaming, hair dark and slicked back from her face.

I reach for the exotic soap I've never appreciated until now, working it into a lather between my hands. "Let me," I say.

I start with her shoulders, working the soap across her skin with careful attention. Down her arms, across her collarbone, over the swell of her breasts. She leans into my touch, eyes closed and lips parted, and the trust in her expression makes something clench tight in my chest.

"Your turn," she says when I'm done, taking the soap from my hands.

Her touch is different from mine—lighter, more exploratory. She maps the scars on my chest and shoulders with curious fingers, tracing the tattoo that marks me as Bratva.

"This one," she says, touching a long scar that runs across my ribs. "How did you get it?"

"Knife fight when I was twenty-two. Some punk thought he could move in on our territory."

"Did you kill him?"

"No. But he wished I had by the time I was done with him."

She should be horrified. Should be reminded that she's married to a dangerous man who's done terrible things. Instead, she leans forward and presses a soft kiss to the scar.

"I'm glad you survived," she whispers.

The simple words hit me harder than any bullet ever has. This woman—this beautiful, intelligent, brave woman—is glad I survived. Is grateful that all the violence and pain and ugly choices led me to this moment, to her.

I cup her face in my hands and kiss her with everything I have. All the gratitude and possessiveness and growing love that I can't put into words.

She responds with equal fervor, her body pressing against mine until there's no space between us. I can feel her heartbeat against my chest, can taste the sweetness of her mouth, can smell her arousal mixing with the steam around us.

"I need you," I growl against her lips.

"Then take me."

I lift her easily, pressing her back against the marble wall. She wraps her legs around my waist, and I can feel the heat of her against my cock, ready and wanting.

"Are you sure?" I ask, even though it's killing me to wait.

"I'm sure."

I enter her slowly, watching her face for any sign of discomfort. But there's only pleasure—her eyes rolling back, her mouth falling open in a silent moan as she takes me in.

"God, you feel good," I groan.

"So do you."

The angle is perfect, deep and intimate, with the warm water cascading over us and her legs locked around my waist. I start moving, slow and steady, building the rhythm we found last night.

"Harder," she gasps. "I won't break."

I don't need to be told twice. I drive into her with more force, more possession, claiming her against the shower wall like the primitive part of my brain has been demanding since I first saw her.

She comes apart beautifully, her head falling back against the marble as she cries out my name. The sound echoes off the bathroom walls, and I know I'll never hear anything more perfect.

Her climax triggers mine, and I bury my face in her neck as I spill inside her, marking her as mine in the most fundamental way possible.

We stay like that for long moments, breathing hard and trembling with aftershocks. When I finally set her down, her legs are shaky enough that I have to steady her against me.

"Okay?" I ask.

"Perfect," she breathes. "Absolutely perfect."

We finish showering in comfortable intimacy, trading lazy kisses and gentle touches. By the time we're clean and dry, I'm already thinking about all the other ways I want to have her—in my office chair, bent over the kitchen counter, spread out on the library table.

The realization that I can have her all those ways, that she's mine now in every legal sense, makes me feel drunk with possibility.

"I should get dressed," she says, wrapping herself in one of the thick Turkish towels. "Let you get ready for your meeting."

"The meeting can wait."

"Can it?"

I consider lying, telling her that Dmitri and the others will understand if I'm late because I can't keep my hands off my new wife. But the truth is, business waits for no one in my world. Not even for the most perfect woman I've ever touched.

"No," I admit. "It can't."

She stands on her toes and kisses me softly. "Then go. Handle your business. I'll be here when you get back."

The simple promise makes my chest tight with emotion I'm not ready to name. She'll be here. My wife will be waiting for me when I come home from another day of violence and difficult choices and moral gray areas.

For the first time in my adult life, I have something worth coming home to.

"What will you do today?" I ask as I pull on a suit that costs more than most people's cars.

"Explore more of the house. Maybe talk to Irina about... I don't know, wife things."

"Wife things?"

She blushes, and it's adorable. "Household management. Schedules. What you like for dinner. That sort of thing."

The image of Mila learning to run my household, taking her place as the woman of this house, makes something primitive and satisfied settle in my chest.

"Irina will be thrilled to help," I tell her. "She's been trying to domesticate me for thirty years."

"And how's that working out?"

"Better now that I have you."

I kiss her one more time, tasting the promise of forever on her lips, then force myself to walk away. Business first, pleasure later. It's a rule I've lived by for twenty years.

But as I head downstairs to meet with Dmitri and discuss the latest threats to our territory, I can't stop thinking about the woman I left in my bed. The way she looked at me like I hung the moon. The way she said I'm yours like she meant it.

The way she's already changing everything about my carefully controlled life.

My phone buzzes as I enter my study. Text message from Boris:

Perimeter secure. No unusual activity overnight.

Good. Roman Volkov hasn't made a move yet, but he will. Men like him don't let opportunities pass by, and my marriage to Viktor's sister is the kind of opportunity that demands a response.

Let him come. Let him try to take what's mine.

He'll learn quickly that some things are worth going to war for.

And Mila Morozov—my wife, my salvation, my greatest weakness and my greatest strength—is definitely worth going to war for.