Page 87 of The Cold Bratva King and His Forced Curvy Bride

I walk over to him, stopping just inches away. I have to tilt my head back to look him in the eye.

“Why do you do it?” I ask, my voice low.

“Do what?”

“Control everything. Me. The Bratva. Why can’t you just let things be?”

“Letting things be is how people die.”

“Is that the only reason?”

He looks down at me. His eyes are dark, unreadable. “No,” he says. “It’s not.”

“So why?”

“Because I want to.”

The admission is simple. Honest. He reaches out, his hand brushing against my cheek. His fingers are cold, wet from the rain. I flinch, but I don’t pull away.

“Why are you scared of me, Freya?”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m not scared of you,” I say, my voice trembling. “I’m scared of what you make me feel.”

He smirks, a faint, dangerous curve of his lips. “What is that?”

“Alive,” I whisper.

He steps closer, invading my space completely. His hips brush against mine, his body heat radiating through the damp fabric of our clothes.

“You are seen,” he murmurs. “You are mine to see.”

He kisses me. His hands slide into my hair, tilting my head back, deepening the angle. His tongue sweeps into my mouth, tasting me, claiming me.

I moan, my hands clutching at his shoulders, my fingers digging into the damp fabric.

He lifts me up, setting me on the edge of the counter. The granite is cold against my thighs, but I barely notice.

He steps between my legs, his hands resting on my waist. He’s not rushing. He’s taking his time, exploring my mouth with a thoroughness that makes my head spin.

He pulls back, his breathing ragged. His eyes are burning.

“Nikita,” I gasp.

“Shh.”

He trails kisses down my jaw, my neck. His teeth graze the sensitive skin where my pulse hammers against his lips. I shiver, arching into him.

He unbuttons my shirt, his fingers deft, efficient. He pushes the fabric aside, baring my skin to the cool air. I gasp, my nipples hardening instantly.

He doesn’t touch them. He traces the curve of my waist, the line of my ribs. His touch is light, maddening.

“Please,” I whimper.

“Patience.”