Page 5 of Claimed By the Masked BRATVA
“Because men in this room take what they want,” I say. My gaze fixes on hers. “And you’ve just become what I want.”
The words land exactly as I intend. Shock. Fear. Heat. She trembles, and I see it. The battle between the sensible girl who should run and the reckless woman who wants to stay.
The reckless one is winning.
I could push now, take her hand, drag her into the shadows and make her mine. But I don’t. Not yet. Predators know the kill is sweeter when the prey chooses not to flee.
Instead, I offer my hand, palm up. An invitation disguised as choice.
“Dance with me.”
Her hesitation lasts no more than a heartbeat. Then her fingers slip into mine, trembling, soft, warm.
Victory tastes like champagne and fire.
I guide her onto the dance floor, one hand closing firmly at the small of her back, pulling her into me until she’s pressed against my chest. The music shifts into something slow and sultry. Her body fits against mine like it was designed for this, for me.
She gasps softly when I hold her tighter, when my thigh slides between hers as we move. Every tremor, every flush of heat, every stumble of breath is mine now.
I lower my head until my mouth is at her ear. “Relax,” I murmur. “Let me lead.”
She exhales shakily, and I feel the surrender ripple through her. Not completely. Not totally. But enough.
Enough to know that by the end of this night, she won’t just be another woman at another ball.
She’ll be mine.
Caitlyn
I should have said no.
When he offered his hand, I should have smiled politely, made some excuse, slipped away to hide among the orchids again. That’s what sensible Caitlyn would’ve done, the Caitlyn who spends her nights with textbooks and her mornings coaxing rare seedlings into bloom.
But sensible Caitlyn isn’t here tonight. She’s still in Boston, in the lab, probably with soil under her fingernails. The woman standing here in silk and silver, hand trembling in Sebastian’s grip, is someone else.
And that someone just let a stranger pull her into the center of the most intimidating ballroom she’s ever seen.
The music shifts, slower now, sultry strings weaving through the air like smoke. His hand settles at my back, hot and possessive, pressing me closer until my breasts brush the crisp fabric of his suit. He doesn’t ask permission. He doesn’t need to. The contact is absolute, a claim made in front of a hundred masked witnesses who don’t so much as blink.
My heart stumbles. My body doesn’t.
I move with him as though I’ve known this dance forever.
“You’re trembling,” he murmurs, the words a brush of heat against my ear.
“I told you,” I manage, my voice thin. “I’m not much of a dancer.”
“Liar.” His hand tightens on my waist, dragging me flush against him. The thick press of his arousal nudges my stomach, blatant and undeniable. “This has nothing to do with dancing.”
The air whooshes from my lungs. I know I should pull away, put space between us, but my body has other ideas. My nipples harden against silk, aching. Heat floods low in my belly, and my thighs clench as if to contain it.
God, what is happening to me?
His thigh slides deliberately between mine as we step, the subtle pressure sparking through me like electricity. I bite back a sound that would betray just how close I am to unraveling already.
“You feel it too,” he says, not a question but a fact. His tone is dark, satisfied, like he’s been waiting years for this moment.
I want to deny it. I want to shake my head and insist that I don’t know what he’s talking about. But my body betrays me, arching into him, seeking more.
