Page 3 of Bratva Prisoner
“What do you do, Alyssa?”
“This and that,” she answers with a disinterested shrug.
“That’s vague.”
“I could ask you the same question,” she counters. “You still haven’t told me what you do for a living.”
“Business.”
“Also vague.”
“Touché.”
The music changes to something slower and more sensual. Around us, couples begin moving toward the dance floor, where they press their bodies together in the flashing lights. Alyssa finishes her drink and sets the glass down.
“Dance with me,” I say, extending my hand.
She hikes an eyebrow and asks, “Is that a question or a command?”
“Whichever gets you out of that chair faster.”
She laughs—a sound like silver bells mixed with pure sin. “You don’t give up, do you?”
“Never.”
“Good thing I like persistence.”
She stands and offers her hand again, and the moment our fingers intertwine, an electric current travels up my arm and settles in my chest. We move onto the dance floor, and I pull her close enough to smell her perfume—something floral with hints of vanilla and spice. She fits against me perfectly, her head just reaching my shoulder.
“You’re taller than I expected,” she comments.
“Disappointed?”
“Not even a little.”
The song wraps around us, slow and hypnotic. She moves with natural rhythm, and her hips sway against mine in a way that makes my blood run hot. When she turns in my arms and presses her back to my chest, I have to bite back a groan.
“You’re dangerous,” I whisper against her ear.
“You have no idea.”
Her ass grinds against me, and every rational thought in my head evaporates. The rest of the club fades into background noise. There’s only her body moving against mine, the scent of her skin, the way she tilts her head back so I can see the elegant column of her throat.
“Alyssa,” I purr against the shell of her ear.
“Mmm?”
“I want you.”
She spins to face me, and her hands fist in my shirt. “Here?”
“Anywhere. Everywhere.”
“That’s a lot of confidence for someone who just met me,” she replies with a smirk.
“I’m a confident man.”
“Prove it.”
