Page 5 of The Bratva Stalker and His Pregnant Bride

“I’m not brutal,” she says, a small, triumphant smirk playing on her lips as she rests her chin in her hand, looking entirely unimpressed by my performative offense. “I’m just observant. You’re used to people buying into the charm without asking questions. I like questions. They keep people honest.”

“Then keep them coming, sweetheart,” I murmur, my voice dropping to a low, rough register as I look at her lips. “I’ve got nothing to hide from you.”

She holds my gaze, her dark eyes dropping to my mouth for a split second before she slowly sits back, her fingers tracing the rim of her glass. “We’ll see about that, Samuel.”

As the night deepens, the bustling noise of the lower level begins to fade into the background. The easy, rapid-fire banter we’ve been trading slowly tapers off, replaced by a heavy, quiet gravity that pulls us closer together. Every look lingers a second too long; every shift of our glasses on the table feels like a deliberate step into each other’s space.

When the waiter suggests moving to the intimate, low-lit mezzanine booths upstairs for dessert, neither of us objects.

The private booth upstairs is wrapped in deep, shadow-draped velvet, illuminated only by the faint amber glow of a single candle. Here, the space between us narrows completely. We aren’t sitting across from each other anymore; we are side-by-side, the heat radiating from her curvy frame cutting through the cool air and making my skin sting with anticipation.

I lean back against the cushions, my arm resting along the top of the booth behind her, my fingers inches from her black hair. “You still look like you’re trying to figure me out,” I murmur, my voice low in the quiet of the private space.

Ashley turns her head to look at me, her dark eyes searching mine. At this distance, I can see the rapid rise and fall of her chest, the way her fierce independence is warring with the sheer, magnetic pull of the moment.

“Maybe I am,” she whispers, her voice losing its protective armor, leaving her completely authentic and raw. “Or maybe I’m just trying to decide if you’re as dangerous as you look.”

“Only if you want me to be,” I breathe, my gaze locked on her lips.

The attraction between us is no longer subtext, no longer a clever game of words. It’s a physical, suffocating force.

I don’t plan it. I don’t calculate the move or try to charm her into it. I simply lean down, and at the exact same time, her head tilts up, her eyes closing as she surrenders to the inevitable pull.

Our lips meet.

The kiss is sudden, sharp, and absolutely devastating. It’s not a gentle, polite introduction—it’s a collision of heat and hunger that shocks the breath straight out of my lungs. Her lips are soft, parting under mine as my hand instinctively slides down to grip her waist, pulling her frame flush against my chest. She gasps into my mouth, her hands gripping the lapels of my tailored shirt, holding onto me as if the world has just tilted on its axis.

Fucking hell. I’ve kissed a lot of women, but this—this feels like running headfirst into a live wire. It’s volatile, consuming, and it completely shatters my carefully built control.

I slowly pull back, my chest heaving, my thumb tracing the sharp line of her jaw. Her dark eyes are heavy-lidded, her lips parted and wet from the kiss, and fucking hell, it takes every ounce of my willpower not to pull her right back in.

“We should get out of here,” I murmur, my voice rough and thicker than before.

The implication hangs heavily in the quiet space of the private booth. I’m not talking about finding a louder bar or grabbing another bite to eat, and she knows it. The air between us is thick with the silent question, hot and demanding.

I watch her, waiting for the defensive walls to snap back into place. I wait for her to tell me she’s going home to read, that she doesn’t do this, that I’m moving too fast.

For a second, she hesitates. I can see the calculating, independent CEO in her eyes weighing the risks, calculating the logic of stepping into bed with a man she met three hours ago.

I brace myself for the rejection, my usual charming fallback line already half-formed in my throat.

But the sheer, volatile pull between us outweighs her hesitation.

“A hotel. Not your place,” she says, her voice steady but laced with a breathless heat that makes my blood roar. “And I’m still driving my own car.”

A low, victoriously dark grin cuts across my face. “Deal.”

I immediately signal the waiter over, tossing down a stack of bills that more than covers the entire tab, not even waiting for the change. I slide out of the velvet booth, offering her my hand. She takes it, her grip firm and unapologetic, matching my stride as we head back down the stairs and out of the lounge.

On the surface, I keep my steps slow and my expression entirely composed. I look like the same charismatic, easygoing guy who walked in here. But internally, the gears have completely shifted.

This isn’t just another casual hookup. This isn’t the easy, predictable game I play to pass the time. The raw intensity of that kiss, the fierce intelligence in her eyes, and the way she demands respect without even trying—it’s clawing its way under my skin.

As we step out to the valet, I realize I’m feeling a level of genuine, consuming interest I don’t typically allow myself to feel. And as I watch her walk toward her car, I know there’s no fucking way I’m letting this be a one-night stand.

Chapter 3 – Ashley

The door to the hotel suite hasn’t even fully clicked shut behind us before the restraint we maintained during the drive here completely dissolves.