Page 69 of The Cold Bratva King and His Forced Curvy Bride

I bend lower, pressing my chest flush against her back. She’s completely trapped between me and the chair, unable to move without touching me.

“What do you want?” she whispers.

I move one hand to her waist, slipping it under the hem of her blazer. My palm rests flat against her rib cage, my thumb brushing the soft swell of her breast.

She gasps, her head falling back against my shoulder, her eyes closing.

“You’re cheating,” she breathes.

“All’s fair.”

“Turn the page,” I command.

She reaches out with a shaking hand, her fingers fumbling with the edge of the paper.

“The… the third one,” she stammers. “A broker in…”

She loses the train of thought as my thumb circles her nipple through the silk of her blouse, the peak hardening instantly under my touch.

“Continue,” I murmur, pressing a soft, open-mouthed kiss to the sensitive spot behind her ear.

“In… in Kazakhstan,” she manages, her voice barely audible.

“Good.”

I keep touching her, teasing her, keeping her balanced on the razor’s edge of pleasure and panic. It’s a game of control—how much can she take before she breaks? How much can I push before I lose my own?

My cock is a painful, insistent ache, trapped behind the zipper of my slacks. I want to bend her over this desk. I want to tear that blouse open and take her right here, surrounded by the plans of my empire, the scent of her arousal filling the air.

“He’s a wild card,” she says, her voice gaining a sliver of strength. “He’s greedy. He’ll take money from anyone.”

“Can we buy him?”

“Everyone can be bought.”

“Good answer.”

I pull away slowly. The sudden loss of contact is jarring, a cold rush.

She sits there for a moment, breathing hard, her face flushed, her eyes glazed with a mixture of fury and desire.

She looks wrecked, and absolutely beautiful.

“Same time tomorrow?” I ask, walking around to the front of the desk.

She looks up at me, her gaze still hazy. “Don’t push your luck,” she says, her voice hoarse.

“I don’t deal in luck.”

I hold out a hand to her. She looks at it for a long moment, then takes it. I pull her to her feet, her body swaying slightly.

“Go,” I say. “Get changed.”

“And do what?”

“Wait for me.”

She pulls her hand away, smoothing down the front of her blazer in a gesture of composure. “I’m not a dog, Nikita.”