Page 9 of Bratva Brother’s Bride

“This,” I manage. “I want this.”

That’s all the permission he needs.

The next few minutes are a blur of movement. Roman’s suit jacket hits the back seat. My dress is pushed up around my hips. His hands are everywhere, learning the shape of me with an intensity that makes my head spin.

Roman pulls me over the center console and into his lap. It’s awkward and cramped and my knee hits the gearshift, but I don’t care. His hands grip my hips hard enough to bruise, and I’m grateful for it.

“Look at me,” he says.

I open my eyes. I hadn’t realized I’d closed them.

His face is inches from mine. Up close, the scar through his left eyebrow looks more pronounced. His jaw is rough with stubble.

This time, I kiss him. It’s hard and demanding, my tongue pushing into the wetness of his mouth as a moan slips from my lips.

He understands.

Roman’s hands slide under my dress, and then he’s touching me properly. His fingers are skilled and sure, sliding over my clit before finding my wet entrance. He slips two inside and I muffle a gasp by biting down on his shoulder, whole body jerking. My hips move of their own accord, seeking more pressure, more friction, more everything.

“That’s it,” Roman murmurs against my mouth. “Take what you need.”

I do.

The windows are starting to fog. Somewhere in the distance, a car door slams, but it feels like it’s happening in another world.

Roman’s fingers work me with maddening precision. My walls clench around them, thighs trembling with the effort of sitting on top of him like this.

He watches my face the entire time. When he quickens the pace and I whine, his grin turns cocky. It’s intense and overwhelming and nothing like it was with Dmitri.

“Roman—” His name comes out broken.

“I know.” His free hand tangles in my hair, pulling my head back so he can kiss my throat. “Let go. Good girl.”

The coil of heat in my belly winds tighter and tighter. My fingers dig into his shoulders, probably hard enough to leave marks through his shirt.

I don’t care. He doesn’t seem to either.

His mouth finds mine again just as I shatter. The orgasm hits me like a wave, drowning out everything else. I’m dimly aware that I’m making sounds, that my whole body is trembling, but I can’t stop it.

Roman holds me through it. His hands are gentle now, soothing rather than demanding. He kisses me softly, letting me come back down at my own pace.

When I finally open my eyes, he’s watching me with an expression I can’t read.

Reality starts to seep back in. My dress is bunched around my waist and my hair is probably a disaster. I look awful, the least concerning part about this.

Heat still swirls low in my stomach, colliding with the nausea crawling its way up my throat. I kissed him, pretty much fucked him, and now the truth sits heavy in my chest: I don’t regret it.

“We should...” I trail off. Should what, exactly?

“We should go,” Roman finishes. His hands are still on my hips, holding me steady. “People will be wondering where you are.”

Right. Dad will be wondering where I am, and the wake will be well underway by now. I’d almost forgotten about it all.

With a huff, I climb off Roman’s lap and back into the passenger seat. My hands shake as I try to fasten my bra and button my dress. Roman reaches over and helps, his fingers brushing against mine.

“Thank you,” I say quietly.

“For what?”