Page 38 of His Darkest Obsession (Baryshev Bratva #1)

INDIGO

His kiss is softer than I expected.

It's not gentle—because there's nothing gentle about Anatoly—but it is soft in a way that contradicts everything else about him. His mouth moves against mine with such perfect pressure that my body starts responding before my mind has a chance to catch up.

Everything about this moment, from the kiss to the way he holds me in his arms, feels like a paradox. It's tender yet demanding, he's careful yet consuming, and I can practically feel our hearts racing to match each other's frantic beats even as both of us are holding back from fully committing.

He's holding back because he's afraid that if he goes too fast, he might hurt me. And I'm holding back because I haven't dared to think about what could happen if I give in to the hunger awakening inside me.

My hands start moving on their own and find his shoulders as his tongue traces the seam of my lips, asking for entrance. Obedient, I open for him and his tongue sweeps against mine in a rhythm that says mine without a single word being spoken.

With each stroke of our tongues, the kiss deepens into something that leaves my toes curling and my body wanting more.

The chill that wrapped around my heart since seeing Grant Bennet at the gala and being cornered by Lola and Grisha melts away under Anatoly's touch. Anatoly's hands continue to hold me like I'm something precious and worth protecting.

My hands move along the broad expanse of his powerful shoulder to find the seam of his shirt, slip under the thin fabric to touch searing hot skin, and continue their path until I'm digging at his rock-hard muscles.

He moans, and I swallow the sound as my hips start straddling his and all discretion starts melt away.

Stop it! My mind screams at me. You're about to lose control.

Control has been my lifeline for two years. Control over my emotions, control over my surroundings, and control against every reaction that flutters across my heart.

Losing control means vulnerability. Vulnerability means danger.

And danger… Well, I know exactly where danger ends.

But why should I deny myself of what I want anymore? Why can't I have this? Why am I not allowed to crave this feeling that he's offering me?

Anatoly hasn't lied to me. Not once. Sure, he kidnapped me, threatened me, and married me despite my own protests, but he's never lied to me.

He kept every promise he's made to me.

And when I begged him to be satisfied with only the tiniest glimpse of the fucked-up fragment from my past, he cared enough about me to not push for more.

All he wants is to protect me. Isn't that enough?

I make my decision and press even closer into him, my body seeking more contact as my hands begin undoing the buttons of his shirt.

I kiss him back with everything I've been holding inside—all the fear, anger, and endless guilt I've carried for the past two years.

His arms tighten around me in response, one hand sliding to the small of my back to pull me closer.

Our kiss deepens, and grows hungrier with each delicious sweep of our tongue. I pour the same strength he's giving me back into him, drinking in his groan as our bodies press together.

And then, we're falling. Falling together into bed with my weight pressing him down into the mattress as I give in to the heat building between us.

Trembling fingers continue moving down and wrench one button after another loose from Anatoly's shirt until I can finally touch him properly. The heat of his body rises up to meet my palms as I push the fabric aside and reveal his muscled chest with its intricate tattoos and old scars.

His hand moves to hike my dress up, and I gasp as his calloused fingers brush against my bare thighs. Heat sparks across my skin at his touch and I feel my hips take on a life of their own as they grind achingly against him.

I break our kiss and rise up to look down at him, my chest rising and falling with each uneven breath I take. His lips are parted, swollen from our kisses, and nothing can mask the desire swimming in his blue eyes as he stares up at me.

But his hands have come to a maddening stop on my leg. Fingers press into my flesh, and his thumbs feather the network of scars crisscrossing my thighs.

They move no further.

That's when I realize. He's waiting for me.

He's still playing the game we've agreed to since that moment he held me against the window right before he knelt down between my legs.

That he won't fuck me until I beg.

It's absurd, now that I think about it, because it's also obvious that I've let him do everything he wanted to do to me.

But that's not quite true either.

It was everything that I wanted him to do.

Even this.

Especially this.

But now that we're so close to crossing this final line, hesitation suddenly grips me. I look down at Anatoly's inked and scarred body beneath me. Is this what I want? Am I ready for this?

The desire pulsing between us is undeniable. I can feel how much he wants this and how much I want this in the way his muscles tense beneath my fingertips, and from the throbbing wet heat between us.

I know why I'm hesitating to go further. But does he?

Can he know?

Anatoly sees the way I'm looking at him and notices my sudden stillness. His brows furrow slightly.

"What's wrong?" he asks, his voice hoarse with want.

I look down at him, at this dangerous man who kills without remorse yet treats me with such unexpected tenderness. The words escape before I can stop them.

I have to know for sure.

Before I commit a mistake that I might never be able to back away from.

"Am I your wife?" I ask. "Your real wife?"

Anatoly's blue eyes lock with mine, unblinking and intense.

"Yes," he says.

It's just a single word. Simultaneously simple yet infinitely definitive.

I search his face for any hint of deception, and search for a lie I know I won't find. There's nothing there except raw honesty, and a soft shiver of warmth rushes down my skin and settles low in my belly.

Taking a deep breath, I reach for his hands. My fingers wrap around his wrists, and guide them deliberately higher up to my hips until they slip beneath the hem of my dress.

"Your wife," I whisper, a question disguised as a statement. "To protect and hold."

His fingers flex against my hips, warm and strong. "Yes," he breathes.

I move his hands upward, letting him push the dress higher until it bunches around my waist to expose my belly to the cool air pulsing with want.

"For better or worse," I continue guiding his hand up.

"Yes," Anatoly says, his voice deeper now.

Rough callouses scrape against my skin, leaving a delicious friction burning in their wake. He doesn't push for me to go faster, but lets me set the tempo of what's happening between us.

My breath trembles slightly as I move his hands slowly up my abdomen. His touch leaves trails of fire burning my skin. He's setting me on fire, and I don't care.

I want him to burn me.

A small gasp escapes my lips when I bring his fingers further up until they slip beneath the edge of my bra.

"In sickness and in health," I say, barely above a whisper.

His eyes darken. "Yes."

He follows my lead and pushes the undergarment up along with my dress

For a moment, the world disappears as dress and bra slip over my eyes. His palms scrape against my tightening nipples, and a soft moan tumbles from my lips. A fresh gush of wetness dampens my panties. Darkness envelopes me for a moment, but Anatoly's heat keeps me grounded.

It reminds me that I'm not alone. That he's right here even if I can't see him.

"To shield me from the world," I say when I see him again, feeling exposed yet strangely powerful.

Anatoly's gaze burns into mine. "Yes."

In one fluid motion, I pull my dress and bra over my head completely, and toss them somewhere in the darkness of the room.

I'm completely naked now, apart from my underwear as I sit on his lap.

His cock thunders between my legs and I know he's aching to fuck me as much as I ache to be fucked by him.

"Till death do us part?" I whisper.

"Till death," he answers, reverence in his voice.

I take his hand once more, bring his fingers to my lips, and press a gentle kiss against them while I savor the roughness of his skin.

"You swear it?" I ask, my final question hanging between us.

"Yes," Anatoly breathes, his voice deep and sure.

I take his hand, pressing my lips to his index finger and drag my mouth along its length. His eyes never leave mine as I kiss each fingertip, one by one, while guiding his other hand down my body.

My eyes flutter closed as his palm traces a burning path down my neck.

His touch is feather-light, almost reverent as he moves.

Down past my neck. Then between the valley of my breasts.

A moan punches out of my throat as it continues to move further down, torturously slow as if he's savoring every moment of contact between us.

"You're beautiful," he murmurs.

I take his fingers into my mouth, sucking gently and Anatoly hisses in appreciation.

It's ironic. I'm nearly naked, completely exposed before this dangerous man whom I've watched kill without hesitation. This same man who had come to kill me not too long ago.

Yet somehow, I feel utterly safe like this.

For the first time in all these two years, I don't feel like I need to hide behind a fake name or my blue hair. I don't feel like I need to constantly keep one eye over my shoulder, and instead I can just feel at ease with someone seeing all of me.

Everything from my scars to my hair to my name.

And for the first time, I feel safe enough to let my control dissolve away.

His palm continues its journey downward, skimming over my belly and turning to seek the tiny gap at the edge of my soaked underwear.

I guide his hand beneath the fabric, shuddering against when a finger brush past my aching clit and towards the wet pulsing heat. He knows exactly where to touch and exactly how I want him to move.