Page 7 of Kidnapped & Bred By The BRATVA
I growl, low and raw, the sound ripped from somewhere deep inside my chest. My hand comes up, curling around her jaw, tilting her face to mine. And then I’m kissing her.
Hard and hungry.
Her lips are soft, trembling against mine, but when I press harder, when I demand more, she melts. Her body folds into me, yielding, pliant. The taste of her rushes through me, sweet and sharp and utterly addictive. Her hands come up over my chest and rest on my shoulders beneath my jacket as she opens her mouth wider to me.
My other hand fists against the wall to keep from touching more. Because if I touch her now, if I let myself feel the curve of her hips, the swell of her breast, the heat between her thighs, I won’t stop.
And I can’t ruin her yet. Not until she knows exactly who she belongs to.
When her mouth opens beneath mine, a soft gasp escaping, and I take it, swallowing her sound. Her tongue brushes mine, tentative but eager, and the world tilts.
This isn’t lust. Not just lust.
This is certainty.
I know it in my bones, in the scar that burns across my cheek, in the rage that’s defined me for all my life. She quiets it.Tempers it. But at the same time, she feeds the hunger, makes it worse, makes it better.
She’s the one.
I break the kiss only because I have to, because I need air, because if I don’t stop now, I’ll take her right here, against the wall, and I won’t be gentle.
Her lips are swollen, her eyes glazed, her chest rising and falling with ragged breaths, her nipples, firm and dark, brushing against my chest. She looks ruined already, and I’ve barely touched her.
I rest my forehead against hers, panting, fighting the urge to claim her fully. “Olivia,” I rasp, her name a vow.
Her fingers twitch against my neck, like she doesn’t know whether to cling to me or push me away. Then she curls one around my neck and drops the other to the space over my heart and I see it for what it is.
Permission.
Olivia
I’ve been kissed before.
Polite, awkward brush-of-lip kisses from boys my father approved of. Kisses that tasted of nerves and expectation, of men trying to please him, not me.
But this is nothing like that.
Roman’s mouth crushes mine, fierce and unrelenting, and I’m gone. Every thought, every fear, every memory of the church and the altar and my father’s furious voice…it all burns away. There’s only him, only this heat flooding through me, only the way my body folds into his like I was made for it.
My lips part under the pressure, a soft gasp spilling out before his tongue claims mine. I taste him. Dark, rich, addictive, and I can’t get enough. My hands clutch at his shirt, his shoulders, at anything to keep me grounded, but it’s useless. He overwhelms me. He consumes me.
And I want him to.
I’ve never wanted anything like this. Not safety. Not freedom. Not even love. Just him. Just this hunger. Just the need clawing at me to be ruined by him completely.
When he pulls back, just an inch, my mouth aches at the loss. My lips throb, my chest heaves, and I can’t stop staring at him. His scar catches the light, sharp and ruthless, but his eyes are molten.
“Roman,” I whisper, though I don’t remember deciding to say his name.
A growl rumbles low in his chest, his hand tightening on my jaw. “Say it again.”
“Roman.”
The sound of it seems to unmake him. He kisses me again, harder, hungrier, until my back slams against the wall and his body presses flush against mine. I feel every inch of him. Solid muscle, heat, and the unmistakable hardness straining against his trousers.
A needy sound escapes me, muffled between our mouths. Embarrassment flickers, but it’s drowned instantly by the rush of arousal flooding my veins.
I don’t care. I don’t care about my father’s deals, about the alliances he tried to force on me, about the man waiting at the altar. All I care about is this fire consuming me from the inside out.
