Page 101 of Bratva Brother’s Bride

“When Konstantin called our child a bastard,” he says, his voice low, “the only thing that stopped me from putting him through his own desk was knowing I had somewhere better to be.”

My breath catches. “Where’s that?”

“Here.” His hands slide from my face to my neck, fingers wrapping around the sides of my throat. “With you. Making sure you understand exactly what you are to me.”

“I already know what I am to you.”

“Do you?” He steps closer, eliminating the distance between us until my back hits the wall. His body pins me there, solid and unyielding. “You still seem to think that Konstantin or Anton or anyone else can take you away from me.”

His grip tightens slightly on my throat. Not enough to hurt, but just enough to make my pulse spike.

“They can’t.”

“Roman—”

He cuts me off by shifting his grip, one hand moving to fist in my hair while the other braces against the wall beside my head. The position forces me to look up at him and meet the dark intensity in his eyes.

“Is that clear?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“Tell me you’re mine.”

“I’m yours.” The words spill out before I can stop them.

Something dark and satisfied flickers in his eyes. “That’s right. You are.”

He kisses me then, hard and claiming. There’s nothing gentle about it; his teeth catch my lower lip, tugging until I gasp, and then his tongue is in my mouth.

I kiss him back with equal fervor, gripping the front of his shirt. He lowers me onto the bed, following me down. His weight above me steals the breath from my lungs, but I barely notice because he’s already undressing me.

“Roman,” I gasp against his mouth. “The baby.”

“The baby is fine.” His lips drag down my throat, teeth scraping over my pulse point. “I’m not going to break you. I’m just going to remind you who you belong to.”

His hands find my breasts, cupping them through my bra. I arch into his touch, a moan slipping free. He responds by yanking the cups down, exposing my nipples to the cool air of the bedroom.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, his gaze dropping to my chest. “Already desperate for it.”

I want to argue, but he’s right. My nipples are peaked, straining toward him, and there’s an ache building between my thighs that has nothing to do with tenderness and everything to do with need.

He pinches one nipple, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger. The sensation shoots straight to my core, and I whimper.

“More,” I demand.

His laugh is dark. “You don’t get to make demands.”

Then he drops to his knees in front of me.

I stare down at him, my breath catching. Roman Volkonsky, on his knees. The sight is enough to make my head spin.

His hands find the hem of my skirt, pushing it up around my waist. Cool air hits my thighs, followed immediately by the heat of his breath as he leans in and presses his mouth to the damp fabric of my underwear.

“Roman!” I jerk against the bed, my fingers tangling in his hair.

He doesn’t answer. He just hooks two fingers into my underwear and drags it down, slow enough that I feel every inch of cotton peel away, and then his mouth is on me with no warning at all.

The sound that comes out of me isn’t a word. My hips buck up and his forearm slams across them, pinning me flat while his tongue drags one long, filthy stroke right through the center of me. He does it again. Slower. Like he’s tasting how wet he’s made me and wants me to know it. My hands scrabble for something and I find his hair. I pull, and he groans against me until the vibration alone nearly finishes me.