Page 67 of Married to the Don (Kornilov Bratva Duet 1)

He reaches out gently and curls his hand around my wrist, sliding down until his fingers are warm against my palm. I try to ignore it, but there is an electric zing that accompanies his touch.

Maybe the bubbles from the champagne have short-circuited my brain.

“You could be right. Maybe murder will be what ends us.” Viktor’s voice is low and gravelly, and I’m so distracted by the rumble of it that I can’t even bother being afraid at his casual mention of murder. He leans down, stealing my air. “But whatever it is, it won’t be a lack of chemistry.”

I arch towards him out of instinct, proving him right. My body wants his. The feeling of him on my skin, between my legs. Even though I haven’t missed Viktor’s smug face, I’ve missed the warmth of him in my bed.

“No.” I back away and shake my head. “You don’t get to force me into this and then use me. I’m not someone you hired, and I’m certainly not your slave.”

“As I recall,” Viktor says, eyebrow raised, “you married me willingly. I didn’t have to put you in a chokehold and drag you down the aisle. You wanted this. You chose this.”

I bark out a laugh. “Most grooms wear a tux, not a gun.”

“I didn’t hold it to your head,” Viktor says slowly, his eyes narrowing like he could imagine doing that very thing. Like, after all his promises, he might decide to press the gun to my forehead right now. “I didn’t threaten you.”

“You might as well have,” I say between gritted teeth. “Don’t get the idea I’m your blushing bride, Viktor. I’m not.”

I move to walk around him, but Viktor throws out his arm just like he did downstairs to stop me from going upstairs. He plants his palm against the wall and then slides in front of me. “I’d have to be thick as the brick wall you think I am to believe you’re happy about this arrangement.” His head dips low, and his voice dips even lower. “However, you are blushing.”

I turn towards the wall, trying to hide the evidence, but my entire body feels like it’s radiating with warmth. Heat rolls down my back in waves and pools low in my belly.

“I just got married to a criminal. I’m allowed to be nervous.” My defense is weak, and Viktor knows it.

He closes the distance between us and wraps his arm around my lower back. I push on his chest, but my arms feel like spaghetti.

“Nervousness could account for the fluttering you feel here,” he says, pressing his finger against my temple before sliding it down my neck to rest above my heart. “And here.”

My entire body is rigid like a cable. I want to pull away from him, but I’m afraid any stray movement of his hand over my body will cause me to snap.

Viktor circles his finger over my heart, each sweep growing wider until his finger brushes across the taut tip of my nipple straining against the fabric of my shirt. I gasp, and he grins.

“That, however, is usually caused by another emotion entirely.”

His finger is frozen, and I’m unsure whether I should slap him or arch into his touch. My mind and body have never been more at war.

I hate this man. Don’t I? That’s what I’ve been telling myself anyway.

Yet, here I am, anxious for him in a way I’ve never experienced before. My insides feel molten, and although I know I should want to chop his finger off for what he just did, I can’t ignore the part of me that desperately wants him to do it again.

As though reading my mind, Viktor flicks his finger upward, and I shiver against the sensation.

He flattens his palm against my chest, cupping my breast, and leans in, his breath warm on my skin. “Sorry to make you … nervous.”

He is taunting me, but I don’t care.

My body collides with his with such force that Viktor actually stumbles backwards. I wrap my arms around his neck and slide my fingers through his dark hair, feeling the softness of it against my fingers. Then, I bring my mouth to his.

By the time our lips touch, he has found his footing. He slides his hands down my back and then cups my ass. I don’t even have to jump into his arms. Viktor lifts me up, holding me like I weigh nothing at all, and I hate how attractive it is. I hate how much of a man he is, and how much it makes me want to be the gentle, fragile doll to his brute strength.

As an act of silent rebellion, I cup the back of his head and crush our mouths together. I kiss him until it hurts, until we are a mess of teeth and tongues and lips. Viktor growls against my mouth, the vibration sending a shock down my spine, and I arch my back against the shiver, inadvertently rolling my hips against him.

His excitement is obvious now, pressing against my inner thigh. It’s like an optical illusion. Once you see it, you can’t unsee it. Or, in this case, un-feel it.

There is no ignoring the press of him, and I can’t help myself. I roll my hips against him again.

The contact draws another long growl from him, and then one of Viktor’s hands slides from beneath me, tracing the curve of my waist up to my chest. I shudder when his palm brushes over my breast, and then, before I can compose myself, he grips the collar of my shirt and yanks it downward.

The material shreds, and I gasp in surprise and horror, forgetting for a moment that this isn’t my only shirt. Forgetting that I have ten more like it hanging in my closet.

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