Page 23 of Marrying His Son’s Ex (Forbidden Kings #3)

ALARIC

The Miami penthouse suite overlooks Biscayne Bay, all glass and steel and expensive views. I pour myself three fingers of whiskey and try to process what just happened.

We won.

Four hours of negotiations with men who torture people for sport, and Kasimira sat across from them like she was discussing the weather.

When Boris Petrov started screaming about his brother’s death, she didn’t flinch. When they demanded fifty million instead of twenty, she calmly translated their threats and waited for my response.

When that bastard Dimitri suggested she might enjoy paying Viktor’s debt “personally,” she looked him dead in the eye and told him in perfect Russian that his mother had raised him poorly.

The room went silent. Then Boris started laughing.

“Your woman has steel in her spine,” he said in broken English. “I respect this.”

By the time we shook hands on twenty-five million and shared Miami territory, they were treating her like an equal.

“You’re staring at me,” she says from across the room.

She’s standing by the windows, still wearing the black dress she chose for the meeting. Conservative neckline, long sleeves, nothing that could be construed as provocative. But the way it hugs her curves makes me want to tear that dress off with my teeth.

“You did well today.”

“I only spoke Russian and didn’t cry. Hardly worth celebrating.”

“You stared down three killers and made them respect you. That’s worth celebrating.”

She turns from the window, and I catch the slight smile playing at her lips. “Are we celebrating?”

The real question sits unspoken. We’ve been dancing around this attraction for weeks, pretending our wedding night was a fluke, acting like every accidental touch doesn’t set us both on fire.

“We should discuss tomorrow’s flight arrangements,” I say, reaching for safer ground.

“Should we?”

She walks toward me, movements liquid and deliberate. The whiskey burns in my throat as I watch her approach.

“The jet’s ready. We can leave first thing?—”

“Alaric.”

“What?”

“Stop talking about the jet.”

She steps closer, and suddenly the air feels charged. I have to resist the urge to reach out and touch her. “What should I talk about?”

“You could start by admitting you’re proud of me.”

Her eyes sparkle with mischief as she says it, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth. She knows exactly what she’s doing.

“I am proud of you,” I say.

“Then why do you look like you’re about to run?”

I laugh, the sound rich and low in the quiet room. She’s baiting me, and we both know it. I set my whiskey glass aside and run a hand through my beard, studying her face.

“You have no idea what you’re asking for, Kasimira.”

“Don’t I?” She takes another step closer, that teasing smile growing bolder.

Her hand comes up to rest on my chest, fingers splaying over my heart. The touch burns through the fabric of my shirt.

I lift her onto the granite counter of the bar, stepping between her legs. The position puts us at eye level, and I can see my own desire reflected in her dark eyes.

When I kiss her, it’s not gentle like our first time. This is claiming, possessive, months of tension exploding between us. She responds with equal hunger, her fingers tangling in my hair as she pulls me closer.

When we pull apart, her eyes hold mine, fierce and unguarded, like she’s daring me to see all of her.

Her chest rises and falls with quick, shallow breaths as I slide the black dress down her arms, the fabric whispering against her skin until it catches at her waist. The snake tattoo on her collarbone glints in the low light, a tiny rebellion etched into her skin, and I trace it with my fingertip, feeling her tremble.

Her skin is warm, soft, and the way she leans into my touch makes my pulse pound in my ears.

“You were fucking magnificent today,” I say, my lips grazing the curve of her jaw, tasting the faint salt of her skin.

“Sitting there, staring down those animals like they were nothing.” My hand slides lower, skimming the edge of her bra, and she arches her back, offering herself to me.

“But here, with me, you’re not in control. ”

Her breath hitches, and she tilts her head to meet my gaze, a spark of defiance in her eyes. “Maybe I don’t want to be.”

Her reply hits me like a match to dry tinder.

I unhook her bra with a flick of my fingers, letting it fall to the counter, and my mouth is on her before she can say another word. I kiss the swell of her breast, my tongue tracing slow, deliberate circles until she gasps, her fingers knotting in my hair.

The tug is sharp, desperate, and I growl against her skin, nipping just hard enough to make her moan.

“Careful, Kasi,” I warn, my voice low and thick. “Keep pulling my hair like that, and I won’t hold back.”

She smirks, breathless, her nails scraping lightly down my neck. “Who said I want you to?”

That’s it. The last shred of restraint I’ve been clinging to snaps. I lift her off the counter, her legs wrapping around my waist like they were made to fit there, her mouth crashing against mine in a kiss that’s all heat and hunger.

I carry her to the bedroom, barely registering the city lights flashing through the windows, and when we reach the bed, I don’t set her down gently.

I pin her to the mattress, one hand capturing her wrists above her head, the other yanking the dress down her hips until it’s gone, leaving her in nothing but black lace panties.

“Fuck, you’re perfect,” I say, and it’s not just her body—it’s the fire in her, the way she held her own today, the way she’s looking at me now like she’d fight the devil himself for this moment. My hand slides to her throat, feeling her pulse race under my thumb. “Tell me you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” she says, her voice steady despite the flush spreading across her chest. “Now show me what it’s like to be yours.”

I crush my mouth to hers, the kiss bruising, possessive, all the tension of the day—of weeks—pouring out.

She kisses me back just as hard, her teeth catching my lower lip, and I groan, the sound swallowed by her mouth.

My free hand tears at the lace between her thighs, tossing it aside, and when my fingers find her, she’s already slick, her body begging for me.

I tease her, watching her squirm, her hips chasing my touch.

“Alaric,” she pants, her voice breaking, her wrists straining against my grip. “Don’t make me wait.”

“Say it again,” I demand, circling her with just enough pressure to make her eyes flutter shut. “Who do you belong to?”

“You,” she gasps, her thighs trembling. “Always you.”

I release her wrists, and her hands are on me instantly, clawing at my shirt, popping buttons in her haste. I let her strip it off, the fabric hitting the floor as her nails rake down my chest, leaving faint red lines that make me hiss.

My belt follows, the leather snapping as I pull it free, and when I kick off the rest of my clothes, her eyes darken, drinking me in.

I settle between her legs, pausing just long enough to memorize her like this—flushed, open, her lips parted and her eyes locked on mine.

Then I push into her, slow at first, savoring the way she stretches around me, the way her breath catches in a soft, broken moan. She’s tight, hot, and so fucking perfect I have to grit my teeth to keep from losing it right there.

“Move,” she whispers, her legs hooking around my hips, pulling me deeper, and I don’t need to be told twice.

I set a rhythm that’s hard and unrelenting, each thrust driving a sound from her that makes my blood burn. Her nails dig into my shoulders, her hips rising to meet me, and I grip her thighs, spreading her wider, angling to hit that spot that makes her cry out my name.

The bed creaks under us, the city outside forgotten, the world reduced to this—to her, to the heat of her skin, the way she clenches around me like she’s claiming me just as much as I’m claiming her.

“Mine,” I growl, my voice raw, my hand sliding to her hip to hold her steady as I drive deeper. “Say it.”

“Yours,” she moans, her head thrown back, her body arching as she starts to unravel. “Alaric, I’m?—”

She comes apart with a cry, her body shuddering beneath me, and the sight of her, the feel of her, sends me over the edge.

I follow her, my release hitting like a freight train, my vision blurring as I bury myself in her, my face pressed to her neck, breathing in the scent of her sweat and that damn floral perfume.

For a moment, we’re still, our breaths ragged, her heartbeat pounding against my chest. Then I pull back, brushing a damp strand of hair from her face. Her eyes are soft now, vulnerable, and I know she’s waiting for me to pull away, to rebuild the walls we’ve both been hiding behind.

I don’t. I slide out of her gently, ignoring the ache in my own body, and grab a warm cloth from the bathroom.

When I return, she’s still sprawled across the bed. I clean her up slowly, carefully, my hands steady even as my heart races.

She doesn’t say a word, just lets me take care of her, and when I’m done, I pull the covers over her, tucking them around her shoulders.

“Sleep, Kasi,” I murmur, brushing a kiss against her forehead. “You’ve earned it.”

She reaches for my hand, her fingers curling around mine, and her voice is barely a whisper. “Stay.”