Page 37 of The Cold Bratva King and His Forced Curvy Bride

The space between us has vanished. I don’t remember closing the distance. I just know that I’m pressed against him, my wrists trapped in his hands, my body aligned with his.

My breathing is ragged. So is his.

I should be doing anything other than what I am doing, which is looking at his mouth.

It’s a subconscious betrayal. My eyes dip, tracing the curve of his lower lip, the sharp line of his jaw. I see the tension there, the restraint.

He notices. His gaze drops to my lips slowly. The air between us crackles.

Time stops. For a second, it’s going to happen. He’s going to kiss me, and I’m going to let him.

The realization hits me like a physical blow. I want him to. I want to see what happens when the control breaks. I want to taste the danger.

He leans in, just a fraction of an inch.

My heart hammers against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat. My lips part. And then… nothing.

He stops.

The tension snaps, recoiling like a rubber band pulled too tight. He releases my wrists as if they burn him and steps back, putting a deliberate distance between us.

I stand there, swaying slightly, my hands grasping at empty air.

“Go inside,” he says, his voice rough, almost unrecognizable.

“Nikita—”

“Now.”

He turns away, gripping the railing so hard his knuckles turn white. His back is to me, a wall of rejection.

I watch him for a moment, confusion and relief warring in my chest. Then I turn and walk back into the penthouse, the glass door sliding shut behind me.

I don’t look back, but as I walk toward the bedroom, my fingers trace my lips, wishing he’d just leaned forwards and kissed me.

Chapter Twelve - Nikita

The space between our lips is barely a breath. A fraction of an inch. A void that would be so easy to bridge.

The heat radiating from her body is a tangible thing, seeping through the silk of her dress and the wool of my suit. Her heart is hammering so hard I can feel the rhythm echoing against my chest.

She wants this. I can feel it in the air between us—a mix of adrenaline and curiosity and that dark, dangerous attraction that’s been simmering since the night I forced that ring onto her finger.

My body screams at me to close the distance. To grab her and crush her mouth under mine and take what she’s offering. It would be so easy, and it would be satisfying.

It would also be a mistake.

Control isn’t just about holding the reins; it’s about knowing when to loosen them. If I kiss her now, I’m reacting. I’m letting the heat of the moment dictate the terms. I’m becoming predictable.

Nikita Gromov is never predictable. So, I stop.

It’s a physical effort, a conscious rejection of instinct. I lock my knees, straighten my spine, and step back.

The movement is abrupt, breaking the magnetic pull that had dragged us together. I don’t just retreat; I disengage.

“Go inside,” I say, my voice rougher than I intend.

The disappointment that flashes across her face is fleeting, but it’s there. She blinks, her pupils dilated, her lips parted and glistening. For a second, she looks adrift, confused by the sudden withdrawal.