Page 63 of Secret Baby of the Bratva
The quiet stretches taut, a wire pulled too tight. It hums in my bones, unbearable, until it snaps.
Dimitri rises, the chair groaning under his sudden movement. Two strides carry him across the room, fast, decisive, impossible to stop. His hand spears into my hair, tilting my head back, and before I can breathe his mouth is on mine.
The kiss isn’t tender. It’s fire—raw, consuming, a violent claim that strips away every fragile barrier I’ve built. His lips crush mine, his grip unyielding, the storm outside echoing in the storm he forces into me.
I resist for a heartbeat. Fury lashes, grief surges, longing claws its way through both. My fists knot in his shirt, trembling with the need to push him back, to punish him for every wound he’s carved into my life. When I pull, it isn’t away—it’s closer.
My body betrays me, hunger surging where fear should live. His taste floods my mouth, vodka and smoke, bitter and intoxicating. His heat presses into me, steady, relentless. I break against him, against the fire and the gravity that hold me in place.
The kiss consumes. It devours grief, drowns fury, burns through the months I spent choking on questions I was too afraid to ask. It doesn’t heal, not even close, but it leaves no room for illusions, no space for lies. Only raw, scorching truth.
I gasp into him, ragged and desperate, fingers clutching tighter at his shirt, nails scraping against muscle beneath. Hishand fists harder in my hair, angling me to his will, and I let him, because fighting only feeds the blaze.
The storm rattles the glass, thunder cracking above us. Inside, it’s nothing but heat, nothing but fire tearing through the ruins of doubt.
When the kiss finally breaks, I’m breathless, my chest heaving, my lips swollen and raw. His gaze scorches mine, unreadable but devastating. The space between us is gone, obliterated.
There’s no cage, no war, no past in this moment. Only the truth we’ve both been running from—truth pressed into my mouth, seared into my skin, undeniable as the fire still burning in my veins.
Our mouths tear apart only long enough for me to drag in a ragged breath before he claims me again. The kiss is brutal, unrelenting, lips bruising, tongues colliding. He drives me backward until my spine thuds against the shelves, books rattling around me as his hands close hard around my waist, my hips, gripping like he could anchor himself to me.
I gasp against him, fury and desire ripping me open. I want to hate him—for the cage, for the silence, for the truth about my father rotting in files on his desk. Every reason dissolves under the fire of his touch, melting into ash as hunger floods through me.
His mouth drags lower, scorching a path along my jaw, my throat. His teeth scrape, sharp enough to sting, followed by the hot drag of his tongue. He leaves heat in his wake, and I tremble beneath it. My fingers tangle in his hair, dragging him closer, nails scraping his scalp as though pain is the only language strong enough to hold my need.
My legs weaken, knees threatening to give, and he feels it. In one smooth movement he lifts me, effortless, and sets me on the edge of the desk. The wood shudders under us, papers scatter like snow, the half-empty glass of vodka tips and spills across ledgers and maps, but none of it matters.
All that exists is him. The solid weight of his body pressing me into the desk, the rough heat of his hands sliding beneath my blouse. His palms sear against bare skin, dragging the fabric higher until it tangles uselessly around my ribs. Every touch tears down the walls I’ve tried to build.
I clutch at him harder, pulling him down until my mouth devours his again. The kiss is raw, tasting of vodka and smoke, his tongue thrusting into me, claiming, demanding. I answer with equal ferocity, biting his lower lip hard enough to taste copper. His growl rumbles against my chest, shuddering through my bones.
The desk digs into the backs of my thighs, hard and unyielding, but I don’t care. He presses between my legs, forcing me wide, driving me mad with every grind of his body. Each scrape of his mouth, every drag of his hands is possession, a reminder of the power he wields.
I refuse to be passive. I meet him, match him, burn with him until I can’t tell if I’m giving or taking.
My hands tear at his shirt, popping buttons, shoving fabric back from his shoulders. His chest is hard beneath my palms, warm and unrelenting, muscles flexing as he presses me down. My nails rake across him, leaving marks he doesn’t flinch from.
He breaks from my lips only when breathing becomes impossible. Our foreheads collide, sweat slicking the space between us, our breaths mingling hot and uneven. His eyesscorch into mine, dark, feral, and his voice is a guttural rasp. “You should have told me.”
The words tear something raw from me. “You should have let me go.”
Neither of us means it.
The silence between us stretches, heavy as thunder, before it breaks.
He kisses me again, fierce and unrelenting, and I answer with the same hunger. My legs lock around his waist, hauling him closer until there’s no space left. His hands seize my hips, dragging me forward across the desk, pinning me so completely that escape isn’t an option. I don’t want to escape.
The fire consumes us both, burning through grief, through rage, until nothing exists but this—his mouth, his hands, the heat that devours everything else.
His mouth leaves mine, trailing heat along my jaw, down the column of my throat. Teeth scrape, lips soothe, tongues scorch. My head tips back helplessly as he bites at the hollow of my neck, claiming, branding. The sound that tears out of me is half gasp, half moan, and his answering growl vibrates against my skin.
His hands move lower, rough palms sliding beneath my skirt. Callused fingers stroke the sensitive inside of my thigh, deliberate, unhurried, until I’m trembling. The edge of my panties tugs against me, damp with proof of how much I need this, how much I hate that I need this. He presses there, firm, knowing, and my hips jerk against him before I can stop myself.
“You burn for me,” he murmurs against my throat, his accent thicker, voice guttural. “Even when you want to hate me.”
I don’t answer. I can’t. My body betrays me too completely. My nails dig into his shoulders, pulling him closer, demanding more.
He doesn’t keep me waiting. His hand slides my underwear aside, two fingers pressing against the heat of me, sliding through slickness with ruthless precision. My breath breaks, sharp and needy. He circles, teases, then pushes inside, stretching me, filling me. My back arches against the desk, a strangled sound escaping my lips.
