Page 53 of The Cold Bratva King and His Forced Curvy Bride

He adds a second finger, curling them just right, rubbing against a spot that makes my vision blur. I grip his hair, pulling his face back up to mine. I need his mouth. I need to taste him again.

The kiss is frantic. Teeth clashing, tongues tangling. It’s messy and raw and perfect.

His thumb finds my clit, circling the sensitive bundle of nerves with a precision that steals the air from my lungs. The dual sensation of his fingers pumping inside me and the pressure on the outside is devastating. My orgasm builds fast, a tidal wave rising in the distance.

“Nikita… I’m going to—”

“Come for me.”

He thrusts his fingers harder, faster, driving me relentlessly toward the edge. The stone railing digs into my ass, the wind whips around us, but all I can feel is him. The drag of his skin, the scent of leather and sex, the overwhelming dominance of his presence.

I shatter.

My back arches, a silent scream tearing from my throat as the pleasure crashes over me. My body convulses, waves of ecstasy ripping through me, leaving me breathless and trembling.

He doesn’t stop. He works me through it, drawing out the aftershocks until I’m limp in his arms, my forehead resting against his shoulder.

“Good girl,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to my temple. “So beautiful.”

I’m panting, trying to regain my bearings. The city is coming back into focus—the lights, the noise, the reality of where we are. Thirty floors up. Exposed.

He’s not done.

He pulls his hand from my pants, and I whimper at the loss. He brings his fingers to his mouth, his eyes locking onto mine as he tastes me. The visual is obscene. Erotic. It makes my heart hammer all over again.

“Sweet,” he says. “Like sin.”

He reaches between us, undoing his belt with a thud. The sound is loud in the quiet night. The zipper follows.

I slide my legs down from his waist, my knees weak. I grip the railing to steady myself, watching him. watching the heavy, predatory way he moves.

He frees himself. He’s thick, hard, jutting out from the opening of his jeans. The sight of him makes my mouth go dry.

“Nikita…”

“Turn around,” he commands.

Every nerve ending in my body sparks. A thrill of fear mixed with dark anticipation.

“What?”

“Turn around,” he repeats, stepping closer. “Hands on the railing.”

My heart hammers against my ribs. This is it. The point of no return.

I turn slowly. Facing the city. The drop is dizzying. I grip the cold stone, my knuckles turning white.

I hear the rustle of fabric behind me. Then, his hands are on my hips. He hooks his thumbs into the waistband of my pants and panties, dragging them down in one rough motion. They pool around my ankles.

The cold air hits my heated skin, but it’s nothing compared to the heat of him as he steps up behind me.

He kicks my feet wider, forcing me to open for him. I feel exposed, completely at his mercy.

He runs a hand up my spine, tracing the curve of my waist, the slope of my shoulders. His touch is reverent almost, contrasting sharply with the brutal urgency of what’s about to happen.

“You have no idea,” he murmurs, his breath hot against the back of my neck, “how long I’ve wanted this.”

“Then do it,” I whisper, bracing myself against the railing. “Stop talking.”