Page 27 of Bratva Stalker Kidnaps His Bride

She answers with her lips parting, with the small sound that escapes her throat, with the way her free hand grips the front of my shirt.

The kiss deepens ever so slowly. My thumb strokes the line of her jaw as her tongue traces my lower lip. I taste the champagne she had sipped, lingering faint and sweet. The leather creaks as she shifts closer, her knee pressing against my outer thigh.

“Tell me to stop,” I murmur against her mouth. “If you need to. If you want to.”

“Don’t stop.”

Her fingers work the top button of my shirt. The black ink of my tattoos reveals itself inch by inch—the vines, the thorns, the dark blooms that curl across my sternum and ribs. She’s seen them before, in glimpses, but never like this. Never with her lips following the path her fingers trace.

I press my mouth to the hollow of her throat. Her exhale stutters.

“You’re trembling,” I murmur.

Her hands slide beneath the fabric of my shirt, pushing it back over my shoulders. It catches at my elbows. I shrug it free and itfalls somewhere behind me but I don’t care. Her palms are flat against my chest now, skin to skin, and I feel the heat of her through every nerve ending.

I reach for the hem of her blouse, lifting it over her head. The lamp catches the curve of her belly, the swell of her breasts, the lace of her bra that I suddenly need to be gone. It joins my shirt somewhere in the dark.

Then it’s just us. Bare chests rising and falling in tandem. Her skin is warm and smooth and I want to memorize every inch with my mouth.

“Lie back,” I order gently. Softer than I’ve ever spoken.

Zara reclines against the arm of the couch. Her hair fans out against the dark leather. She watches me with those eyes—brown and deep and unblinking—as I lower myself over her. I brace my weight on one forearm. The other hand rests on her hip.

“You’re so beautiful.”

Her breath catches. A flicker of something—surprise, maybe, or disbelief—passes through her expression.

“I mean it.” My thumb strokes the curve of her hip, following the line of her waistband. “Every part. Every curve. Every breath.”

“Mikhail…”

“Let me.”

I kiss the corner of her mouth, her cheek, the soft place beneath her ear where her pulse beats strong and steady. My lips travel downward, tracing the column of her throat, lingering at the dip of her collarbone.

Her hands find my shoulders. Her nails press crescent moons into the ink that covers my skin.

The lamp light paints her bronze and gold. Her nipples are dark and peaked, her chest rising and falling with each shallow breath. I lower my head and take one into my mouth.

Zara arches beneath me. A sound escapes her—half gasp, half moan—and her fingers tangle in my hair. I lavish attention with my tongue, slow circles, gentle suction. My free hand finds her other breast and I match my rhythm there, my thumb tracing patterns I feel echoed in the way she moves.

“Please,” she whispers.

I lift my head. “What do you need?”

“You. Just you.”

My hand drifts lower to her belly, then to the waist of her trousers. I unfasten the button, draw the zipper down. She lifts her hips and I pull the fabric away, taking her underwear with it.

Now there’s nothing between us but the few remaining pieces of my clothing, and I shed those quickly. Efficiently. Her eyes follow the path of my body—lean, muscled, scarred in places, tattooed in others—and she reaches for me.

I settle between her thighs. The heat of her blooms against my skin. For a long moment, we just stay there. Forehead to forehead, breath mingling. My hand cups her cheek like she’s something precious.

I have you.

I push inside.

She’s warm and wet and the feel of her draws a groan from somewhere deep in my chest. I move slowly. Not the raw,desperate rhythm I know of—but much more measured, each thrust a promise.