Page 84 of Bratva Stalker Kidnaps His Bride

“I notice everything about you.” My mouth is at her ear now. “Every single thing.”

Her breath catches. Just a hitch. Just enough.

Then she shoves at my chest.

Not hard. Playful. Her palms flat against the ink, her eyes glinting with that specific brand of trouble she's perfected over the years.

“You think you can just—what? Growl a few words at me and I'll melt?”

“Usually works.”

“Not tonight.”

I know this game. I've played it with her a hundred times, a thousand, and it never gets old because Zara doesn't just submit. She makes me earn it. She pushes back. She looks at me with those brown eyes full of fire and dare andprove it, and something in me wakes up that the rest of the world never gets to see.

"Not tonight," I repeat, stepping back to give her room. "Okay. So what do you want tonight?"

She doesn't answer with words.

Her fingers go to the straps of her dress. One, then the other, sliding them down her shoulders with excruciating slowness. The fabric pools at her elbows, catches on her breasts, holds for a breathless second before falling to her waist, to her hips, to the floor. She's wearing nothing underneath. She knew she'd be wearing nothing underneath.

The moonlight paints her in silver and shadow. Her breasts, fuller than before, the nipples dark and already peaked. The soft curve of her belly, the wider sweep of her hips, the triangle of dark hair at the juncture of her thighs.

“This,” she says. “I want you to stop talking.”

I don't remember moving. But suddenly I'm on my knees, and my hands are on the backs of her thighs, and my mouth is pressed to the warmth of her stomach. She exhales—a shaky, surprised sound—and her fingers thread into my hair.

“Zara.” Her name is a vibration against her skin.

“Mikhail.”

Mocking me. But her voice is thinner now.

I look up at her. The angle makes her seem towering, powerful, a goddess in the moonlight. “You're going to let me worship you. And then you're going to get on your knees and worship me. And we're going to do it fast, because Soren sleeps like his mother—”

“Lightly?”

“Like a tiny dictator who might wake at any moment.”

She's laughing even as I pull her down to the bed, even as I roll her beneath me, even as my mouth finds her throat and the pulse that hammers there. The laughter dissolves into a gasp when my teeth graze the spot where neck becomes shoulder.

The bed creaks. The window is open and the surf murmurs outside, a constant low rhythm that we've been listening to for days without really hearing. I hear it now. It matches the blood rushing in my ears.

“Tell me what you need.” My lips move against her collarbone.

“Fast. You said we're doing this fast.”

“That's not what I asked.”

Her hips roll up against mine. I'm still wearing my pants and she's completely bare, and the friction pulls a groan from somewhere deep in my chest. She feels it—my cock, hard and straining—and her eyes flutter half-closed.

"I need you inside me." This is Zara, my Zara, the woman who has seen every broken piece of me and stayed anyway. "I need to feel you. It's been—"

“I know how long it's been.”

“Then stop talking,” she begs sweetly.

I kiss her. Deep and messy and without finesse, because we don't have time for finesse. Her tongue meets mine. Her nailsrake down my back. She's fumbling with my belt buckle and I'm kicking off my clothes and then there's nothing between us but heat and want and three days of stolen glances across a stretch of sand.