Page 20 of Bratva Boss's Secret Baby

I press closer, letting him feel every curve of my body against his. “Show me.”

That’s all it takes. His control snaps completely, and suddenly, his hands are everywhere—tangling in my hair, skimming along my ribs, and sliding down to cup my ass and pull me even closer. The kiss turns desperate, all teeth and tongue and barely contained need.

I can feel his cock against my hip, hard and insistent, and the knowledge that I affect him this way sends heat pooling low in my pussy. I roll my hips against him experimentally, and his groan vibrates against my mouth.

“Christ, you’re going to kill me.”

“Good.” I nip at his lower lip, enjoying the way his hands tighten on me. “You deserve it.”

He laughs against my mouth, the sound dark and full of promise. “You want to make me suffer?”

“Maybe.”

“Then you’re going to love what I have planned for you.”

Before I can ask what he means, he’s lifting me, and my legs automatically wrap around his waist as he carries me toward the bed. He sets me down gently, like I’m something fragile, then steps back to look at me.

“Last chance,” he says quietly. “Once we do this, there’s no going back.”

I reach for the hem of my dress, the same black cocktail dress I was wearing at the club three days ago, and pull it over my head in one smooth motion. His eyes go dark as he takes in the sight of me in nothing but black lace underwear, and I feel powerful in a way I haven’t since this whole nightmare started. “I don’t want to go back.”

He moves toward me with predatory grace, his hands going to the hem of his sweater. “Then we won’t.”

I watch him undress with growing hunger, taking in the sight of broad shoulders and muscled chest, along with the tattoos that snake across his ribs and disappear beneath the waistband of his jeans. I recall a movie I saw about thebratva, and how the tattoos mean things, like time in prison or one’s specialty when it comes to crime. There are stars on his chest, confirming he’s a bad man, but he makes me feel good. There’s a scar along his left shoulder that looks like it came from a knife, and another on his abdomen that speaks to a life of violence I can’t even imagine.

Right now, he’s not a dangerous man who kidnapped me. He’s just Nikandr, looking at me like I’m the answer to a question he’s been asking his entire life.

He joins me on the bed, his weight dipping the mattress, and we’re kissing again. Slower this time and deeper, like we have allthe time in the world to explore each other. His hands map the curves of my body with reverent attention, and everywhere he touches feels like it’s catching fire.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs against my throat, trailing his lips down to the hollow where my pulse is racing. “So fucking beautiful.”

I arch into his touch, fisting my hands in the sheets as he works his way lower. When his mouth closes over my nipple through the lace of my bra, I gasp and push closer, needing more contact.

He takes his time, lavishing attention on first one breast and then the other, until the lace is damp, and I’m squirming beneath him. Only then does he reach behind me to unclasp the bra, pulling it away to reveal me completely.

“Perfect.” The word is barely more than a breath against my skin. “Absolutely perfect.”

His mouth returns to my breast, this time with nothing between us, and I cry out at the sensation. He uses his teeth and tongue with devastating skill, alternating between gentle and demanding until I’m writhing beneath him.

“Nikandr.” His name comes out as a plea, and I feel him smile against my skin.

“What do you need?”

“More.”

“More what?”

“Everything. I need everything.”

He kisses his way down my body, pausing to nip at the sensitive skin of my ribs, to soothe the sting with his tongue. When hereaches the waistband of my panties, he looks up at me. “Can I taste you?”

The question makes heat pool in my slit, and I nod frantically. “Please.”

He slides the lace down my legs with agonizing slowness, caressing every inch of skin he reveals. When I’m finally naked beneath him, he settles between my thighs and looks up at me with something that might be worship.

The first touch of his tongue makes me arch off the bed, and a broken cry escapes my lips. He works me with patient skill, alternating between broad strokes and targeted pressure until I’m trembling on the edge of something incredible.

“Let go,” he says against my labia. “I’ve got you.”

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