Page 18 of Bratva Prisoner
“Can you? You seem like someone who thrives on noise and demands and expectations.”
“Sometimes. But everyone needs a place to escape to.” His gaze travels over the landscaped walls that surround us. “This pool is mine.”
“Your sanctuary.”
“Something like that.”
We’re floating face to face now, close enough that I can see water droplets dangling from his eyelashes. His dark hair has come loose from the bun, and it’s falling across his shoulders in wet strands that make him look younger, less intimidating.
“Thank you,” I blurt out.
“For what?”
“For caring enough to jump in after me. Even if I didn’t need saving.”
“You need saving, Alyssa. The question is whether you’ll let someone do it.”
The words should annoy me, should trigger all my defenses about independence and self-reliance. Instead, they make me want to close the distance between us and find out what it feels like to be saved by someone who actually gives a damn.
“Maybe I’m tired of saving myself,” I admit.
“Maybe you don’t have to anymore.”
His hand comes up to cup my cheek, and his thumb brushes away a droplet of water near my temple. The gesture is so gentle, so different from Troy’s possessive touches, that it makes my breath catch.
“Maksim…”
“I know this is a messed-up situation,” he says, reading the conflict in my voice. “I know you have every reason not to trust me, not to trust anyone. But I need you to know that what I feel for you has nothing to do with controlling you.”
“What does it have to do with?”
“Want. Pure, simple want.”
The honesty in his admission dissolves my defenses, and before I even realize what I’m saying, I whisper, “I want you too.”
His thumb traces across my lower lip, and his legs brush against mine again as we drift even closer. This time, I don’t pull away. Instead, I wrap my legs around his torso and press my core against his groin.
He answers by grabbing my hips and grinding against me, letting me feel exactly what effect our proximity is having on him. The hard length of his arousal prods against my pussythrough the thin fabric of his boxer briefs, making heat flood my system.
“Oh,” I breathe.
“Yeah. Oh.”
My hands find his shoulders, and I dig my fingers into his muscles as I use him to anchor myself in the water. The movement brings our bodies into full contact, chest to chest, hip to hip, with nothing but wet lace and soaked cotton between us.
“This is probably a bad idea,” I manage to say, even as my body betrays me by pressing closer to his.
“Probably.”
“I’m supposed to be your houseguest, not your…”
“Not my what?”
“I don’t know what this would make me.”
“Mine,” he declares. “It would make you mine. And you already are”
The possessiveness in his voice should scare me; it should remind me of all the reasons I swore off controlling men. Instead, it sends a thrill through me that settles between my thighs.
