Page 40 of Bratva Stalker Kidnaps His Bride

“Zara,” he groans.

I guide him forward. The head of him presses against my entrance—I’m already slick, have been since the first kiss—and he pauses there, right at the threshold; the pause is excruciating. My thighs tremble.

“Look at me,” I whisper.

His eyes hold mine as he pushes inside.

The stretch steals my breath as he fills me completely. Mikhail sinks deeper, inch by agonizing inch, and my head falls back. A moan tears from my throat, raw and unguarded. My nails dig into the hard muscle of his shoulders.

“Okay?” His voice is wrecked.

“Don’t stop.”

He withdraws, slowly, making me feel every ridge, every vein, then drives back in. The desk creaks beneath us. My world has narrowed to this: the solid heat of him, the rhythm he builds with each deliberate thrust, the way he buries his face in the curve of my neck and breathes me in like I’m oxygen.

My legs lock around his hips. The angle shifts and suddenly he’s hitting something devastating inside me, a spot that sends sparks cascading down my thighs. I cry out loudly when he does it again.

“There?” he asks, and there’s something like wonder in his voice.

“Yes, Mikhail.Yes.”

His pace quickens. The desk slams against the wall in counterpoint to our breathing, to the wet sound of our joining, to the broken syllables falling from my lips.

“Mikhail, Mikhail,Mikhail!”

His thumb finds my clit, circling it with devastating precision. The sensation of him pumping inside me, and the pressure building where his thumb works its slow magic is too much and not nearly enough.

I grip the edge of the desk. The world tilts. His other hand slides up my back, fingers spreading between my shoulder blades, grounding me even as I start to fragment.

“Let go,” he breathes against my ear. “I have you.”

The orgasm hits like a brick to the head. I clench around him, pulsing, and the sound I make is completely wanton. He fucks me through it, each thrust prolonging the pleasure, drawing it out until I’m trembling and gasping and boneless against him.

His rhythm falters. His forehead presses to mine, sweat-damp skin against sweat-damp skin, and his breath comes in ragged pants. The control he wears like armor is gone, completely stripped away. What’s left is raw and unguarded and impossibly beautiful.

“Inside,” I manage. “Please.”

He buries himself to the hilt. A groan rips from his chest as he spills, hot and deep, his whole body shuddering against mine. I watch his face—the way his eyes squeeze shut, the way his mouth falls open, the cords of his neck straining against those dark vines—and commit every detail to memory.

For a long moment, neither of us moves. The only sounds are our labored breathing and the persistent drum of rain against glass. I can feel his heartbeat where our chests press together.

He lifts his head, his eyes finding mine. There’s something in them I don’t have words for—something tender and terrified andfierce all at once. We’re tangled together on the desk, still joined in the most intimate way possible.

My phone is face down on the desk where I left it. The threat sitting in its message history is still there and the contacts that have gone dark are still dark.

And somewhere in Dubai, what I want is still waiting for me.

“When do we leave?” I whisper, my voice quiet and certain in the dark.

He presses his answer to the base of my throat, where my pulse flutters.

“Tomorrow night.”

Dubai is waiting for us, and this time I am not going alone. This time I know what I am walking toward, and whatever is there beneath the glass towers and the buried records and the silenced voices of people who were frightened—it is not going to stay buried.

Not when I am this close.

Chapter 14 - Mikhail