Page 52 of The Cold Bratva King and His Forced Curvy Bride

I grip his jacket, my fingers fisting in the leather, pulling him closer. I need the friction, the weight, the solid reality of him. He’s an anchor in the storm of my own confusion.

He walks me backward until my spine hits the cold stone of the railing.

The bite of the ice against my back contrasts sharply with the heat radiating from his front. He crowds me, surrounding me, consuming me.

His other hand drops to my waist, pulling me flush against him. There’s no space left. Every inch of me is pressed against every inch of him.

I can feel his heart hammering against my ribs. It matches the frantic rhythm of my own.

We aren’t playing roles anymore. We aren’t Bratva lieutenant and angry wife. We’re just a man and a woman teetering on the edge of something dangerous.

He breaks away, breathing hard, his forehead resting against mine.

“Freya.”

My name sounds like a prayer. Or a curse.

“Don’t stop,” I say again. My voice is wrecked.

He groans, a low sound vibrating in his chest, and then he’s kissing me again. Deeper. Harder.

His hands are roaming now—down my spine, over my hips, pulling me tighter against him. I’m drowning in the sensation. The taste of whiskey. The scent of leather. The feel of his stubble scraping against my chin.

I hook my leg over his hip, needing more leverage, needing more contact.

He reacts instantly, lifting me slightly, pinning me harder against the railing. The stone bites into my back, but I don’t care. I welcome the pain. It grounds me. It reminds me this isn’t a dream.

Time dissolves.

There is no city below. No wind. No Bratva. There’s only the frantic slide of his mouth and the punishing grip of his hands.

He hoists me up, and my legs wrap around his waist on instinct. The silk of my pajama pants are absolutely no barrier against him. I can feel him, hard and insistent through the denim of his jeans. The friction sends a jolt of electricity up my spine that wipes out coherent thought.

“Nikita.”

I gasp his name against his lips, and he swallows the sound. He doesn’t speak. Words are useless here. He grinds against me in a slow, deliberate roll of his hips that tears a ragged moan from my throat.

His hands are everywhere. One is fisted in my hair, tilting my head back, exposing the column of my throat to the biting air. His mouth leaves mine, trailing hot, open kisses down my jaw, to the sensitive skin just below my ear.

“You taste like fear,” he growls, the vibration of his voice buzzing against my skin.

He bites down on the pulse point in my neck.

I cry out, my head falling back. The pain blooms, hot and bright, morphing instantly into pleasure that pools low in my belly. I’m wet, aching, ready to combust from just this—just the pressure of his body and the way he’s claiming me.

He shifts his weight, one hand leaving my hair to shove between us. His fingers are cold when they slip under the waistband of my pants, but his touch is scorching.

“No,” I gasp, my hips jerking involuntarily. “Too much.”

“You can take it.”

He pushes aside the fabric of my panties and finds me. I’m soaked. He groans, a low, guttural sound that makes my inner muscles clench.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, his voice rough with lust. “So fucking ready for me.”

He slides a finger inside, deep and unrelenting. I buck against him, seeking more. It’s not enough. It’s nowhere near enough.

“More,” I demand, my voice cracking.