Page 62 of Forced By the Obsessed Bratva
Chapter 16 – Matvey
She’d been gone for too long.
I seethed at the closed bathroom door, one leg dangling off the bed, the other bent loosely beneath me. A half-full glass of whiskey dangled from my fingers, the ice now melted.
The silence behind that door had made my scalp prickle. It was unusual, especially after the sudden change in her mood after the party a few days ago.
She barely spoke a word the whole way home. Gave me a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. Spoke of being tired and needing a shower, and that was all she said.
But I wasn’t stupid.
Something had shifted in her. I couldn’t wrap my fingers around it, but I could feel the change.
I had no idea why or when, but it was somewhere between the garden and the end of the party. Whatever it was had pierced under her skin like a splinter, and she was hiding it from me.
I poured a drink into the shot glass I’d brought up with me earlier and drank from it, the whiskey burning its way down my throat like liquid fire.
Zoella was never the cold type. She was acid and fire-tongued, wrapped in one body. She didn’t cower or watch her tone; she told her feelings exactly how she felt them.
Which was what made this silence so much worse than anything else.
I rested the glass down carefully with a delicate clink on the nightstand, and as if on cue with my own actions, the door groaned as she pushed it open.
Everything inside me came to a halt.
Zoella walked into the room wearing nothing but a transparent black slip of lingerie that framed her hips andhugged her body like a second skin. Her nipples poked through the laced fabric.
She was so goddamn sexy in it that for a moment, I forgot all about her sudden mood swing this evening and how long she’d spent inside the bathroom.
The tension, the questions, the blaze behind my eyes, all of it melted away in the inferno that burst to life in my veins.
She came toward me slowly. Almost too slowly. Every step closer was calculated and smooth, but I could still sense the tension beneath the act.
“Do you care for a drink?” she asked, raising her brows.
I whipped my head to the bottle of whiskey on the nightstand. “I have a drink already.”
Her lips curled with a smile. “Not whiskey. Something more magical. You haven’t had a taste of my special cocktail. I’ll go make some to set the mood.” She leaned over and pressed a kiss on my lips, then she left the room.
When she returned moments later, she was holding two glasses of Manhattan, one in each hand, her fingers tightly curled around the stems, knuckles pale from where the blood had been squeezed out.
When she handed me one, our fingers touched and a spark awakened, shooting straight down to my cock until I could feel my dick twitch in response.
Zoella didn’t flinch, but she quickly withdrew her hand from mine as if my touch burned her skin.
Something twisted in my belly.
She slid onto my lap, her knees against either side of my hips, the hem of that wicked slip hiked high up on her thighs.
My hands went to her waist instinctively. Possessively.
Her lips played inches from my own, warm breath sliding over my lip. “Tell me how it tastes,” she breathed, low and raspy. “If you’d like something sweeter.”
I took a sip of the drink and groaned as it slid down my throat like liquid dusk. It was smoky and bitter but had the right amount of sweetness to it.
She raked her teeth through her bottom lip. “How does it taste?”
I took a second sip, then drank the entire glass in one go. “Not bad at all. I didn’t know you could make something this good.”
