Page 85 of The Cold Bratva King and His Forced Curvy Bride

“Nikita,” she gasps. “Please.”

I don’t tease her. I don’t make her beg. I simply give her what she wants, what we both need. I push the silk up, exposing her thighs. I hook my fingers in her panties, dragging them down.

She helps me, kicking them aside, opening herself to me.

I unzip my jeans, freeing myself. I am hard, aching, desperate for her.

I look into her eyes, seeing the same desperate need reflected there.

“Now,” she whispers.

I don’t hesitate. I drive into her, burying myself to the hilt.

She cries out, her head falling back, her nails digging into my shoulders. I hold her there, pinned to the counter, possessed and possessing.

I start to move, my strokes hard and deep. The kitchen fills with the sounds of our pleasure—the slide of skin against skin, the ragged sound of our breathing, the low, guttural growls that tear from my throat.

She meets me thrust for thrust, her legs wrapping around my waist, pulling me deeper. It is fast, frantic, a desperate clash of bodies in the dark.

I can feel the pressure building, a tight coil in my gut. I reach between us, my fingers finding her clit. I rub her in time with my thrusts, pushing her toward the edge.

“Come for me, Freya,” I growl. “Let me feel it.”

She shatters. Her body convulses around me, her inner muscles clamping down on me like a vise. She screams my name, a sound of pure, unadulterated ecstasy.

I follow her over, my own release tearing through me like a gunshot. I bury my face in her neck, groaning her name as I pour myself into her.

We slump against each other, our hearts hammering against our ribs, our bodies slick with sweat.

For a long time, we just stay there, tangled together on the counter. The city lights flicker outside, indifferent to the storm that has just passed.

Eventually, I lift my head, looking down at her. Her eyes are closed, her breathing slowly returning to normal. My mother’s necklace lies between her breasts, and the brooch clings to her collar.

“You’re mine,” I whisper, the words a prayer and a curse.

She opens her eyes, looking up at me. “I know,” she murmurs and kisses me again.

Chapter Twenty-Three - Freya

We’re on our way back from a formal dinner when the sky tears open ten miles outside the city.

One moment, the horizon is a bruised purple, heavy with the promise of rain. The next, the heavens unleash a deluge that turns the world into a blur of gray water and asphalt.

The wipers of the SUV are useless, slapping frantically against the glass, smearing the water rather than clearing it.

“We can’t make the bridge,” Nikita says. His voice is calm, cutting through the drumming of the rain. “The flooding will block the access road.”

I stare out the side window. The landscape is indistinguishable, just shapes and shadows swallowed by the storm. “Where are we?”

“Safe house. It’s an old extraction point.”

He turns the wheel, the tires hydroplaning for a second before biting into the mud. We leave the main road, bumping down a gravel track that disappears into a dense thicket of trees. The suspension groans, protesting the rough treatment.

A structure looms out of the dark. A house, or the skeleton of one. It’s concrete and glass, modern and stark, sitting alone in the middle of the clearing.

Nikita kills the engine. The silence that follows is sudden and absolute, broken only by the roar of the wind and the hammering of the rain against the roof.

“Stay here,” he says.