Page 23 of Bratva's Stolen Bride
She’s going to make me work for this.
I wonder if I’ll manage to catch her in the water? I assumed I would, but as I count, “Four, three, two,” I’m not sure, and sprinting along the sand becomes a very real prospect. “One. I’m coming for you, lisichka.”
I take my first powerful stroke, kicking like hell, and sending me forwards. Then I’m head down. Focused on swimming as fast as possible, every muscle working in rhythm, with a single aim.
Get her. Pin her. Make her mine.
There’s tranquillity in the pursuit. My mind is clear of anything but the water around me and the desire to capture my girl.
The salt. The sun. My world in the shape of a forbidden woman half my age. But this is utter clarity when presented with a choice of whether to allow her to put herself in danger, or force her into my arms? There’s no question.
My cock is still as stiff as a bat, which probably accounts more for why I’m not faster. I’m swimming with a fucking anchor dragging, and no oxygen going to my limbs that really need it.
But there’s no way my cock is getting the message. It has main character syndrome, and thinks chasing Payton is entirely for horny reasons.
There’s just my heart pounding in my chest as I slice through the sea, the colour turning pale-turquoise as I reach the area closer to the beach.
Salty water clarifies everything. Tears. Blood. The ocean. And right now, it has revealed to me that no matter what the price is, Payton belongs to me.
My eyes sting as I look up to check where she is, and fuck. Moya lisichka is a wily little thing.
She’s scrambling to her feet ahead of me. I’ll be faster than her on solid ground, with my longer, stronger legs. But what if she gets to the house in time to make mischief? Lock me out perhaps?
Pizdets, I cannot let that happen.
I push harder. My chest heaves. My arms are screaming as I hear her splashing.
Got to get her. Then the water is shallow, and I’m on my feet and pounding after her, spray flying everywhere.
I’ve gained. A lot. But she’s probably six paces ahead.
Her dripping wet, bikini-clad body is a sight I’ll have burned into my retinas for the rest of my life.
I home in on her, my taller frame eating up the ground far quicker.
The soft sand makes it hard going for us both, but more so for her, with her shorter frame meaning more steps.
I’ve never run like this. I’ve never chased, either, and it’s sheer willpower that forces my lactic-acid-filled legs faster, closing the gap between us.
Then she’s at the patio door, pulling it open, my feet slapping on the wooden deck, and as she slips inside, I barge in with her. Wrapping one arm around her waist, I propel us across theroom, falling onto the sofa, me under her to break her fall before I roll over and pin her squirming body with my hips.
Pinning her, I look down into her blue eyes.
Mine.
11
FELIKS
I’m still hard. My cock presses into the space between her thighs, and jerks in response to her.
We’re both wet and sandy. I’m dripping seawater onto her. She’s slippery beneath me. But my shock at the intensity of the feelings between us is mirrored on her face.
“What were you going for?” My hips hold her down, but she’s not scratching at my eyes, or trying to really get away.
Her gaze flicks to my suit jacket on the kitchen island. Where both our phones are tucked into my pockets.
“Ah, your phone.” I lift myself from her and in two steps I have her phone in my hand. It’s switched off, as my men are well trained. No leaving live devices around.
