Page 6 of Claimed By the Masked BRATVA
“I don’t—” The protest dies on my tongue when he spins me, pulling me back so hard that my breasts crash against his chest. His mouth hovers at my ear again, his breath scalding.
“Look at you,” he growls softly. “Blushing, trembling, soaking for me, and I’ve barely touched you.”
My cheeks flame. No one has ever spoken to me like that. Direct, filthy, unashamed. And instead of recoiling, I throb harder, shame twisting into want.
“What are you doing to me?” The words slip out, half whisper, half plea.
“Nothing you don’t want,” he answers, tilting my chin up until I’m forced to meet the dark fire behind his mask. “Say it, Caitlyn. Say you want me.”
I can’t. The word lodges in my throat like a stone. But my body answers for me, hips swaying toward him, lips parting, breath stuttering. My silence is its own confession.
He smirks, satisfied, and the hand at my waist slides lower, cupping the curve of my ass with possessive ease. My body jerks in shock, but instead of pushing him away, I melt further into his hold.
The string quartet swells, and I realize with dizzying clarity that the rest of the room has blurred into insignificance. I couldn’t pick out a single face around us. All I know is the hard line of his body pressed to mine, the strength in his grip, the unrelenting hunger in his gaze.
The song ends, but he doesn’t release me. His hand stays firm at my waist, his cock hard against me, his eyes locked on mine like we’re the only two people alive.
“Come with me,” he orders.
It isn’t a question. And, God help me, my legs obey before my mind has caught up.
He leads me off the dance floor, through clusters of glittering guests who step aside without hesitation. No one dares challenge him. No one even seems surprised. As if this is expected. That when Sebastian Petrov decides, the rest of the world rearranges itself accordingly.
The thought should terrify me. Instead, it makes me feel… marked. Protected. Like I’ve stepped under an invisible shield that only he can provide.
We slip into a shadowed alcove lined with marble columns and orchids that perfume the air. The noise of the ballroom fades, replaced by the frantic beat of my pulse.
He cages me against the wall with one arm, the heat of his body crowding mine until the cold stone at my back contrasts painfully with the inferno in front of me.
“Tell me what you want,” he says, his voice low and demanding.
“I—” My throat closes. I’ve never admitted what I want aloud before. Not like this.
“Say it.” His thumb brushes the edge of my mask, grazing my cheek. “Say the words, little botanist.”
Something inside me cracks. The confession bursts free before I can stop it. “I want you to touch me.”
His nostrils flare, his jaw tightens, and then his hand slides down to curl gently, possessively, around my throat. The pressure is light, but the message is clear: mine.
“Where?” he growls.
My cheeks burn. My heart pounds so hard it hurts. But the truth tears out of me anyway. “Everywhere.”
The hunger that flashes in his eyes nearly buckles my knees.
“You’re playing with fire,” he murmurs, leaning close until his lips ghost against my ear. “I’m not a man who gives gentle kisses and lets you walk away.”
“Good,” I whisper, shocking myself as much as him.
He freezes for half a beat, then lets out a sound that’s half groan, half growl. “Brave little thing.”
And then his mouth is on mine.
The kiss is brutal, claiming, nothing like the careful, tentative brushes of lips I’ve known before. His tongue demands entry, hisgrip at my throat keeps me exactly where he wants me, and my body melts instantly, helplessly, as if I was always waiting for this.
Heat explodes through me, wild and reckless, leaving me gasping into his mouth. He tastes of champagne and danger, smells of expensive cologne laced with something darker, addictive.
He devours me like a starving man, and the terrifying part is how much I love being consumed.
