Page 72 of The Cold Bratva King and His Forced Curvy Bride

I’m in the office, trying to sketch a design, but my hand is unsteady. The lines are shaky, the proportions wrong.

He’s standing in the doorway, watching me. “You’re still working,” he says.

“I can’t sleep.”

“Join the club.”

He walks into the room, his movements fluid and silent. He stops behind my chair, placing a hand on my back. His touch is casual, possessive. A claim.

“Show me,” he says, leaning over my shoulder.

His chest brushes against my back, his warmth seeping through my thin shirt. I can feel the steady beat of his heart, a rhythm that syncs with my own frantic pulse.

“It’s nothing,” I say, my voice barely a whisper. “Just… ideas.”

“Ideas are never nothing.”

His hand slides from my back to my shoulder, his thumb rubbing circles against my skin. It’s an innocent touch, but it sends a jolt of heat straight to my core.

I close my eyes, leaning into his touch. I hate myself for it. I hate how much I want this.

“Tell me about the man,” I say, forcing myself to focus.

“Colombo,” he says simply. “A scout.”

“Are we in danger?”

“We’re always in danger.”

He turns my chair around, forcing me to face him. He’s standing over me, his legs braced apart, his hands resting on the arms of the chair. I’m trapped.

“We’re safe,” he continues. “For now.”

I look up at him. His face is shadowed, his eyes dark and unreadable.

“Kiss me,” I whisper.

It’s a mistake. I know it’s a mistake, but I don’t care.

He leans down, his mouth claiming mine. He kisses me like he has all the time in the world. His tongue sweeps into my mouth, tasting me, exploring me. His hands slide from the arms of the chair to my waist, lifting me effortlessly.

I wrap my legs around his waist, my arms around his neck. He carries me to the desk, sweeping the fabric swatches and sketches onto the floor with one arm.

He sets me down on the edge of the desk, the wood cool against my thighs. He steps between my legs, his body pressing against mine.

I can feel him, hard and insistent, through the thin layers of our clothes.

“Nikita,” I gasp, breaking the kiss. “We can’t.”

“We can,” he murmurs, his mouth trailing down my neck. “We will.”

He unbuttons my shirt, his fingers brushing against my skin. I arch into him, my head falling back.

He cups my breasts, his thumbs circling my nipples through the lace of my bra. They pebble instantly, aching for his touch.

“Please,” I whimper.

He chuckles, a low, dark sound. “I love it when you beg.”