Page 17 of Bratva Stalker Kidnaps His Bride
“You already know how this ends,” he drawls.
“Do I?” I ask sarcastically. He just raises a brow, extending his palm towards me. I lift the phone higher.
“Try me,” I scoff.
His jaw clenches, eyes narrowing as he steps towards me. I step back, walking backwards until the edge of the desk hits the back of my thighs.
Mikhail stops directly in front of me, his musky scent clouding the air around me hedonistically. My pulse spikes, sweat pooling in the small of my back.
“Give me the phone, Zara,” he growls roughly.
“No,” I push out, voice weirdly stable.
“Do not test me.”
I laugh shakily.
“That ship sailed days ago.”
His hand reaches towards mine but I jerk away, knocking myself off balance. My hip catches the desk, making me stumble.
A strong vice-like grip tightens around my waist, his hard body pressing against my flesh. I blink profusely, lips parting. Mikhail’s other hand is braced against the desk beside me.
The phone slips from my hand and clatters away, but the sound becomes distant. Everything except him and his scent and his taut body pressed against mine fades away.
His palm, warm and large, cradles the curve of my waist possessively. Heat burns through the thin fabric of my blouse like his touch carries its own temperature. Every place we are not touching feels barren and cold.
His exhale brushes my bottom lip, the scent of smoke and something minty clouding all rational thought. My chest rises and falls in tandem with his, the contact sparking like flint before it catches on fire.
Anger buzzes under my skin, hot and directionless, but it’s washed away by molten desire. My pulse kicks against my chest.
“You infuriate me,” I breathe.
Something flickers across his face.
“You think you don’t do the same to me?” His thumb presses against the sliver of skin where my blouse parts. “Every day. Every goddamn day, Zara, you walk up to me and you argue and you push and you don’t have the slightest idea what it takes for me not to—”
He halts, jaw tight.
“Not to what?” My voice comes out thinner than I’d like to admit.
His grip tightens just enough so I feel the heat of his palm searing into my skin, the rough calluses on his fingers, the way his breath stutters out of rhythm.
“Not to do this.”
His lips capture mine, all teeth and heat and weeks of tension detonating between us like a charge going off. His free hand slides into my hair, fisting tight, angling my head back as his mouth devours me.
A sound—half protest, half plea—leaves me, my palms flattening against his chest. His tongue sweeps past my lips and the taste of him floods my senses: whiskey, smoke, something dark and addictive.
“You drive me insane,” he growls against my mouth. His hands drop to my hips, fingers digging into the generous curve of my ass through the jeans. An ’oof’ escapes me as he lifts me like I weigh nothing.
My legs wrap around his waist instinctively. He sucks a bruise into my neck, tearing a gasp from my throat, and Mikhail swallows it whole, his hips rolling against mine in a rhythm that makes me see stars.
His mouth trails down my jaw, teeth scraping where my pulse flutters frantically. “Weeks of just watching you walk out of this office, of lying awake wondering what sound you make when—”
“Shut up.” I fist my hands in his hair and pull hard. “Shut up and fuck me.”
He makes a sound like a wounded animal. As he drops me to my feet, his hand sweeps papers and a crystal paperweight to the floor in one violent motion off his desk, the crash echoing through the room.
