Page 98 of The Bratva Betrayal

The room goes quiet.

Artem looks at me for one second longer than necessary before he finally moves.

No asking. No checking. No more pushing.

He crosses the remaining distance and his hands find my face, careful of the bruise but certain about everything else.

He forces me backward until my shoulders meet my bedroom wall and there’s nowhere left to go.

“You should’ve thought of a better answer, Lisichka. Because once my dick is inside you, no man on this earth’s going to keep me out of your cunt. And I’ll do whatever I want with it, when I want it, how I want it, and you’re going to like it all.”

Without warning, his mouth crashes against mine. He’s been deciding this since the storage closet, the red dress, and the moment I handed him something he wasn’t supposed to want.

One hand slides into my wet hair, careful of nothing now, and the towel is a problem he solves without breaking the kiss.

I stop thinking about Misha.

I stop thinking about anything.

Artem’s hands stay at my jaw, tilting my face up, and the kiss deepens with slow, deliberate pressure. He’s been patient for a very long time. Now, he’s done waiting.

He doesn’t care about the bruise on my face or the secrets I’m guarding. All he cares about is the heat radiating off me and the way I look at him, daring him to take what he wants.

His hand shoots up, fingers curling firmly around the column of my throat. He doesn’t squeeze to choke, but he applies enough pressure to expose the pale line of my neck and force me to look into his dark, feral eyes.

“You think you can just tell me to fuck it out of you, and I’ll play nice?” he growls, his voice a dangerous rasp against my lips. “I don’t play nice, Lisichka. I take or kill. And right now, I’m taking everything.”

He doesn’t waste time with foreplay; the tension between us has been building for too long.

He reaches down, his large hand gripping my thigh and hiking it high over his hip, pinning me against the wall.

Artem fumbles with his pants until his cock springs free, brushing against my entrance in this torturous little movement that has me squirming.

I don’t have to wait long.

Artem doesn’t ease in; he grips my hips and drives himself into me in one powerful, devastating thrust.

I let out a sharp, strangled gasp while my fingers dig into his suit jacket.

He fills me completely, stretching my walls to their limit. The sensation is overwhelming, raw, intrusive, and exactly what I need.

“Fuck.” Artem drops his forehead against mine, his breath coming in ragged hitches. “You’re so tight.”

He begins to move, his pace feral and unrestrained. Every thrust is a claim and a violent assertion of ownership.

He hammers into me, the sound of our bodies colliding. The wet, rhythmic slap of skin on skin fills the room.

He keeps his hand locked around my throat, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw, grounding me in the intensity of the moment.

“Tell me,” he commands as he drives deeper, hitting my cervix with a force that makes my toes curl. “Who.”

I can only moan, tossing my head back against the wall as I chase the friction. The roughness of it, and the dominance of his presence, drown out the memory of the violence and ignorance that I faced earlier.

With Artem, the power is different.

It isn’t about breaking me; it’s about consuming me.

He shifts his grip, sliding his hand from my throat to the small of my back, hoisting me higher so he can bury himself even deeper.