Page 24 of The Russian's Revenge Bride
That was it. Two syllables that cut the last string holding back the flood. His control snapped, and I saw the careful mask disintegrate, revealing the man beneath it—dangerous, desperate, mine.
He moved before I could take another breath, one hand at the back of my neck, the other fisting in my hair as his mouth crashed into mine. The kiss was hard and claiming, his tongue sweeping into my mouth with raw hunger. There was nothing polite or careful in the way he kissed me; it was as if he wanted to consume every gasp, every sound I made.
I kissed him back with everything in me, my hands gripping his shirt and shoving it upward. Heat radiated from his skin, muscle shifting under my touch. He tasted of whiskey and something darker, something that made my stomach twist and my thighs press together.
His hands roamed over me with an almost frantic thoroughness—over my shoulders, down my sides, cupping my hips and pulling me into the hard line of his body. The solid press of him against me made my breath stutter.
We fell back onto the bed, the mattress dipping and sheets twisting beneath us. His mouth left mine to trail down my neck, teeth grazing until he found the spot that made me gasp.
His gaze devoured me as I lay there in my bra, the heat in his eyes enough to make me shiver. When his mouth closed around my nipple through the thin fabric, a jolt of pleasure shot through me. My back arched into him, my hands threading into his hair to hold him there.
His other hand trailed down my stomach, stopping at the waistband of my shorts. The moment his fingers slipped beneath the fabric, my body tensed.
“Then tell me to stop,” he murmured against my skin.
“I don’t want you to stop.”
His breath came out slowly, like he was steadying himself. Then he kissed me again, softer this time, his fingers stroking me gently through the thin barrier of my panties. My hips twitched at the touch, heat pooling low in my belly. He explored me with careful precision, coaxing my body to relax, to open to him.
When he slid my shorts and panties down together, I felt the cool air on my skin and his gaze, dark and possessive, taking me in. He stripped his own shirt away, then shed his pants, the sight of him stealing my breath.
He settled between my thighs, bracing himself on his elbows, his weight heavy and warm above me. “It might hurt,” he said, searching my face.
“I know,” I whispered.
He kissed me as he guided himself to me, pressing slowly forward. The first stretch was sharp enough to make my nails bite into his back. He stopped instantly, his forehead resting against mine.
“Look at me,” he said, voice low.
I did, and in that gaze was something grounding, something that made the tension ease just enough. He pushed deeper, inch by inch, until he was fully inside me. I felt impossibly full, the ache deep and unfamiliar.
He stayed still, letting me adjust, his thumb brushing my cheek. Then he began to move, slow at first, the friction making the ache fade into heat. Each thrust came a little deeper, a little faster, the pleasure building in place of the pain. My legs wrapped around his waist without thought, pulling him closer, my body urging him on.
His hips moved in a rhythm that made me gasp, the sound of our bodies filling the air. His mouth found mine again, messy and desperate, his breath mixing with mine. My hands roamed over the hard lines of his back, memorizing every inch.
The tension coiled tighter and tighter, my body clenching around him as I reached for something I couldn’t name. It broke in a rush, my cry muffled against his shoulder as pleasure rolled over me in waves. He groaned low in my ear, his thrusts growing erratic until he stilled, shuddering as he spilled inside me.
When it was over, we lay in the wreckage of my careful control, breathing hard in the darkness. My body felt like it had been struck by lightning, every nerve ending alive and singing.
Maxim rolled away from me, reaching for his clothes with mechanical precision. The careful mask was sliding back into place, brick by brick, until I could barely see the man who’d just shattered me into pieces.
“That changes nothing,” he said without looking at me. “Have you made your decision about the wedding?”
I should have been hurt by his coldness. Should have felt used, discarded, reduced to nothing more than a means to an end.
Instead, I smiled into the darkness. There was no other decision to make.
“You’d better be ready,” I told him, stretching like a cat in the rumpled sheets. “Because I’m going to make your life hell.”
He finished getting dressed and moved toward the door, but not before I caught the hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
“Looking forward to it,” he said, and winked. “The wedding’s in three days.”
The door closed behind him with a soft click, and I was alone again. But this time, the solitude felt different. Charged with possibility instead of despair.
I’d made my choice the moment I’d pulled off my tank top. The moment I’d looked that camera in the eye and dared him to want me back.
I was going to marry Maxim Voronov. I was going to become the wife of a Bratva facilitator, stepping into a world of violence and secrets and borrowed time.