Page 77 of Arranged Marriage to the Brutal Bratva King
“It’s the only one I have.”
His hands snap to my wrists, then travels downwards. I freeze as his hand drifts to my skirt pocket, and finds the cell phone.
“What’s this?” he asks, his smile turning cold. “You’ve been talking to someone?”
“No,” I lie, but my throat’s gone dry.
He stares at me for a long moment, and I watch emotions flicker across his face: fury, disappointment, something that might be hurt if I didn’t know better.
Then his mouth crashes against mine.
The kiss is brutal, claiming, nothing like the careful affection of the past week. This is possession reasserting itself, dominance reminding me exactly who I belong to regardless of what plans I might be making.
I kiss him back with equal desperation, anger and fear and want all tangling together until I can’t separate them.
Dimitri walks me backward until my hips hit the desk. His hands find my thighs, lifting me onto the polished wood surface without breaking the kiss. Papers scatter. Something falls to the floor with a crash that echoes through the room.
Neither of us cares.
“Tell me,” he demands against my mouth, pulling back just enough to force eye contact. “Tell me you weren’t planning to betray me.”
“I wasn’t!”
“Prove it.” His hand slides under my skirt, finding the heat between my thighs. I gasp, hips lifting involuntarily into the touch.
“This doesn’t prove anything,” I manage, even as my body contradicts every word.
“Doesn’t it?” His fingers stroke over my underwear, feeling how wet I already am. “Your body knows who you belong to, even when your mind tries to forget.”
I want to argue. Want to maintain that this is just physical, that desire doesn’t equal loyalty, that I can want him and still plan his downfall.
Can’t. He’s right; my body responds to him in ways I can’t control or fake.
Dimitri pushes my underwear aside, fingers finding bare skin. I moan, head falling back as he strokes with practiced precision.
“Look at me,” he commands. “Keep your eyes on me.”
I force myself to meet his gaze. The intensity there steals my breath—possessive and furious and desperately wanting.
“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Stop thinking. Stop planning. Just feel.”
His fingers slide inside me, and rational thought evaporates completely. I’m clutching his shoulders, making sounds I’ll be embarrassed about later, completely at his mercy on his desk in his study.
“You’re mine,” he says, thumb circling my clit while his fingers work inside me. “Say it.”
“What, no.”
“Say it, Janice. Admit what we both know.”
“I’m—” The words catch in my throat. “I’m yours.”
“Again. Louder.”
“I’m yours.” The admission tears out of me, desperate and true. “Please.”
“Please what?”
“Please don’t stop.”
