Page 23 of The Russian's Revenge Bride

The thought of him watching me, wanting me, made something bold and reckless unfurl in my chest. I’d spent my whole life being the good daughter, the responsible business owner, the woman who never took risks or made waves.

Look where being good had gotten me. Disowned by my father and held captive by the Bratva.

Maybe it was time to try being bad.

I sat up slowly, never taking my eyes off the camera. My pulse thundered in my ears as I reached for the hem of my tank top, then stopped. This was insane. This was beyond reckless.

This was exactly what he’d want me to do.

But maybe that was the point. Maybe I was tired of pretending I didn’t want him too. Maybe I was ready to own the desire that had been eating me alive since the moment he’d pressed his mouth to mine.

I pulled the tank top over my head in one smooth motion and dropped it on the floor beside the bed, leaving me only in my bra. The cool air hit my bare skin, raising goosebumps along my arms and chest.

The camera watched. Silent. Unblinking.

I leaned back against the headboard, my eyes locked on the lens. “Is this what you want to see?” I whispered into the darkness.

My hand moved to my collarbone, fingers tracing the line of my throat down to the hollow between my breasts. My breathing was already turning shallow, ragged with want and defiance.

I was playing with fire, and I knew it. But God help me, I wanted to burn.

My other hand slipped lower, past the waistband of my shorts, and I bit back a moan as I touched myself. Heat andslickness and the kind of need that made smart women do stupid things.

I’d never done anything like this before. Never put on a show, never let anyone watch me in my most vulnerable moments. But there was something intoxicating about the camera’s unwavering attention, about knowing he was probably on the other side of it, watching me fall apart.

“Maxim,” I breathed his name into the darkness, and the sound seemed to echo off the walls.

My movements grew more urgent, more desperate. I was close, so close, teetering on the edge of something that would shatter me into a thousand pieces.

The door exploded open.

Maxim stood in the doorway like an avenging angel, his chest rising and falling with controlled fury. His eyes blazed in the dim light, taking in my position on the bed, my state of undress, the way my hand had frozen between my legs.

“Jesus Christ, Eleanor.”

His voice was raw, wrecked, and I saw his hands clench into fists at his sides. He was fighting for control, and losing.

I should have been embarrassed. Should have scrambled to cover myself, to salvage some shred of dignity from this moment. Instead, I felt powerful. Dangerous.

“Did I interrupt something?” I asked, my voice honey-sweet and dripping with false innocence.

He moved into the room like a predator stalking prey, and I saw him reach up to turn off the camera with sharp, violent movements.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

“What does it look like I’m doing?”

He was beside the bed now, close enough that I could see the war being fought behind his eyes. Want and restraint. Hunger and honor. His chest rose and fell faster, his handsflexing at his sides like he needed them anchored somewhere before they ended up on me.

“You’re trying to manipulate me.”

“Is it working?”

His jaw tightened so hard I thought the sound might crack through the air. His gaze drifted down my face, pausing on my mouth, then sweeping over my chest before dragging back up to my eyes.

“Get dressed,” he said, voice low and tight.

“Make me.”