Page 17 of Bratva's Stolen Bride
I’m caught in this thirst trap, helpless to do anything but stare.
“Don’t be shy,” he rasps, and the tension between us notches up. “Unless you’d rather do it yourself?”
I shake my head, but my hands are trembling as I open the sarong and let it fall to the floor. Then I’m bared to him, only insubstantial triangles of fabric covering my most private places.
“Mm.” He gives a deep sound of masculine appreciation at the reveal of my bikini-clad body. “Good girl.”
Oh god that feels amazing. Good girl. I can’t remember when I was last praised like that. Hayley says thanks when I do stuff around the house, and it’s nice when an essay is returned with ticks and “Good” or “Great!”
But to have someone—an experienced, worldly, rich and powerful man like Feliks, in particular—say it to me in person, with his deep voice? That’s chocolate ice cream on a hot day.
Taking my hand in his, he smooths his palm up my arm and over my shoulder. I press my lips together to keep from making inappropriate noises as this huge man puts sunscreen on me with bold sweeps of his hands. First one arm, then the other.
He’s not brisk or efficient, but neither does he linger in obvious seductiveness. Picking up the sunscreen again, he cups my shoulder with his big palm, and I turn with the slight pressure. His movement is confident as he clears the hair from my back, then passes his hand over my shoulders and down my back.
I didn’t know sunscreen could be sexy, but I bite my bottom lip to stop the sound of how much I like this getting out when he reaches my hips. His hands are so big it barely takes any time for him to cover my back and certainly not as long as I’d like.
His touch is turning me to molten jelly, despite the air conditioning in this house.
When he wordlessly clasps my shoulder and turns me to face him again, I’m struck again by how enormous he is. I have to crane my neck to look up at him. Those dark-blue eyes are intense as he holds my gaze and slides down to kneel. We’re almost face-to-face, me looking very slightly down. Which, of course, should make me feel dominant that he’s knelt, but actually it only emphasises that he could crush me with one tattooed hand.
He pours more suncream into his hands and dips his gaze to my legs starting at my left ankle, and cupping my whole calf. I’m vibrating with how erotic this is.
I tingle all over as his hands get above my knee, then to mid-thigh. It’s only when he reaches higher that I wonder if he’ll take what I’m so obviously offering.
I hold my breath.
“Spread your legs for me, lisichka.” His voice is gravelly as he nudges my inner thigh with the back of his hand.
Obediently, I shift my feet apart, but looking down, he moves slightly, and my eyes go wide as I see that his shorts are tented. That thick, hot length I had under my fingers earlier has returned, and it steals my breath.
But despite that, he rubs the suncream into the delicate skin of the top of my leg, apparently focused on his task, and not noticing the demand of his own body or the way I’m writhing with horny thoughts.
The bikini bottoms are at an angle over my bottom, and as his fingertips run along the seam between the fabric and my skin, I’m practically panting.
I want him to dip under the stretchy line and brush against my throbbing, heated, swollen clit. I can’t press my legs together to get a bit of friction, and he’s literally right in front of me so there’s no way to writhe or reach between my legs and give myself relief.
But I’m getting so turned on.
My heart is beating fast as he starts again with my other leg, one palm easily enveloping the top of my foot. Then he slides his hands up my other leg, pausing to put more suncream into his palms, then at my inner thigh, I swear he slows.
He’s holding my gaze, and I’m totally trapped by him. No handcuffs required for this captive. Apparently, sunscreen is all that’s needed.
His hands encircle my thigh, giving it a subtle squeeze that I don’t think I’d notice if I wasn’t attuned to his every movement. It’s as though there’s a connection between us, an unseen thread of communication without words, where the slightest touch is a meeting of souls.
I try to tell myself that’s absurd, and not true, but when he calmly removes his hands and picks the bottle of sunscreen back up, I’m bereft. I need him.
He grasps my waist almost like he’s steadying me, and brings one hand around to my tummy, smearing white cream as he does. Then his palm rests there, his thumb swiping over my belly button.
His gaze is fixed on my lower stomach, but whereas with anyone else I’d think they were judging that it isn’t flat and it’s kind of pudgy, with Feliks there’s something wistful in his dark expression that makes me wonder how it would feel to have his baby growing in my belly, and all his protective, possessive focus on me.
I squirm a little with the idea, the bright spark impossible to keep inside.
His face stays carefully neutral as he runs his hands up my ribcage. I can see what’s going to happen before it does, and I hold my breath, keeping still so perhaps he won’t notice when… Oh, yes. The side of his finger brushes the underside of the curve of my breast.
My heart is a tiny bird fluttering its wings.
Which is unfortunate, because Feliks moves his attention to the top of my chest.
