Page 40 of Married to the Don (Kornilov Bratva Duet 1)

Both of her hands are locked in mine, and her glare is fire and flames. She’s beyond livid and thrashing in my hold like a fish caught in a line.

“You son of a bitch,” she grunts. “Get your fucking hands off me before I—”

“Before you what?” I ask. “Before you bruise my pec with your finger? Before you insult my character?”

She sets her jaw, her eyes narrowed. “I’ll do worse than that.”

I raise a brow in challenge. Then I release her hands and step back. “Go ahead. I’d like to see it.”

Truly, I would. Molly can hold her own in an argument and in the bedroom, so I would be fascinated to see how she would do in a fight. Especially considering I saved her from being assaulted in the motel lobby. If I hadn’t shown up, would she have fought him off? I’m not so sure.

Her eyes flare, and she licks her pouty lower lip. “No, you wouldn’t. You just want me to fight back so you’ll have an excuse for killing me.”

I don’t say anything because her logic is so far removed from my current train of thought that it takes me a second to switch gears.

“Exactly what I thought,” she says, stepping towards me, her socked foot brushing against my shoe. “Well, I’m not going to make it that easy for you.”

I snort. “What a surprise. Up until this point, you’ve cooperated so well.”

“Bastard,” she growls.

I take a deep breath and put my hands on my hips. In the process, the front of my jacket pulls back slightly, revealing the gun on my hip. Molly doesn’t miss this fact. She glances down at it and fear sparks in her eyes. Just for a moment.

Molly has no idea how much my plans have shifted. She has no inkling of the inner turmoil I’ve been going through trying to decide what in the fuck I’m going to do with her. I suppose that, once you threaten someone’s life, they can never fully relinquish the possibility that you may one day do what you said you would. Even when it no longer seems possible. In fact, it seems ludicrous now that I’d ever been able to even entertain the idea. I can’t kill her now. And I think she knows that.

But part of her will always fear it.

“You wouldn’t know how to fight without your gun,” she says softly, taking a step back. “It’s the only reason you were able to get me in your car. If it hadn’t been for your gun and your guards, Theo and I would still be free.”

They’d still be on the streets, cold and shoeless, but I don’t mention that. “You don’t think I could handle you on my own?”

She shakes her head.

Holding her gaze, I slip my gun from my hip, not missing Molly’s nervous swallow, and place it in the drawer behind me.

“Do you want to test that theory?” I ask.

Molly doesn’t answer. She just stares up at me with her golden eyes blazing and her mouth puckered. She dares me to touch her by just existing. By wearing infuriatingly tight clothes and having infuriatingly soft hair and being flat-out infuriating.

When I move towards her, she flinches like she wants to round the island and put a countertop of space between us, but my hand catches her hip before she can. My fingers slip beneath the material of her top and graze the soft skin just above her leggings. The touch is soft, delicate, but this feels like a war between us.

Will she push me away or raise the white flag?

I take more ground, sliding my hand up her waist and around to her back where I find the clasp of her bra. She stands still, breathing heavily, as I unhook it with one hand.

Molly lifts her arms when I grab the bottom of her shirt and pull it over her head, but otherwise, she stays perfectly still.

I slip her bra straps down her tanned arms, exposing her full chest and the desire she has been trying to hide. But even she can’t fight her own body. Even someone as fiery as Molly can’t control desire.

I lean down and flick my tongue across her, and she hisses softly. When I take her breast in my mouth, she finally lifts her hand, curling her fingers in the hair at the back of my neck. She holds me to her, pressing me for more, and it’s as close to a surrender as I’m liable to get.

I wrap my other arm around her waist and lift her onto the counter. She draws me in with her legs and grabs my face, bringing my lips to hers.

She swipes her tongue across my lower lip before nibbling it with her teeth. Things move quickly from there. We are nothing but roving hands and greedy mouths, sliding over one another as clothes pile on the floor at my feet.

How is this the easy part with Molly? We can’t have a conversation without biting words and flared tempers, but this comes easily. The first night we met, I kidnapped her and her son, and we still found our way to bed. It’s like we were made for this. Made to be wound up in one another. And wound up by one another, apparently.

Molly practically leaps off the counter and wraps her arms around my neck. “Take my pants off,” she sighs.

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