Page 38 of The Bratva's Nanny
The corners of his eyes crinkled, and an ugly scowl formed on his face. Something brewed between us. Something mystic, cryptic, and immensely enthralling. He looked at me like a pirate looked at a map, searching, seeking, like he was trying to find something that had promise.
As he spoke, I found myself slipping away from the reality of Finn Jameson, the loan, and the threat and getting lost in the sound of his voice.
“If he so much as touches one strand on your head, I’m going to fucking kill him.”
His voice was strangely chill, like he’d done nothing but highlight trending news over breakfast, and I blinked.
This man wasn’t joking.
And this man wasn’t sitting far away anymore. My eyes dropped to the place where heat radiated on my jeans. Our knees were touching. One of his big, calloused hands rested on my thigh while the other cradled the back of my neck.
His rigid posture, the determination in his eyes…everything about the way he leaned in was intentional.
When he opened his beautiful, beautiful mouth to speak, it was nothing I’d have ever expected him to say.
“You’re strong, right? You said you can take down men twice your size.” His eyes glimmered wickedly. “Well, I’d like to see you try.”
The heat from my knees teleported. Stupid thing crept up my neck and warmed my cheeks until they felt rosy. I tried to duck my head, but he slipped a finger under my chin, stopping me. Keeping our gaze level.
At this rate, the thought of a mild heart attack no longer seemed far-fetched.
He couldn’t possibly mean what I thought he meant, right? Surely, there was no way a man as large and equipped as Roman Varkov extended a rare opportunity to tackle him?
I croaked like I’d swallowed a frog. “What?”
“You said you’d do anything, am I right? Anything, if I helped you.”
His eyes dropped to my lips, and everything suddenly became a thousand times clearer than it already was. The true meaning behind his words. The frustration that rose to the surface, threatening to crack his mask of indifference. The desire in his eyes brimming like bright, fiery orange and yellow flames in a furnace. It burned me. Scorched me. Pulled me in like a helpless moth that wanted nothing else but to experience that sensational burn.
My lips parted. I wanted to say something, but the words became a jumbled, tangled mess in my head. My knees quivered, and a throbbing ache settled between my legs, my pulse rising at every second.
I couldn’t breathe.
“I want you to tackle me, Maria….” His fingers snaked up my neck and settled in my hair, and his eyes, as dark as the night, were full of unconcealed lust.
I couldn’t fucking breathe.
“Show me what you’ve got.”
I couldn’t take it anymore.
With a whimper, he heard my surrender, relished in the sight of my sheer misery, and finally did what I wanted the most.
He kissed me.
***
Roman groaned like a hungry dog that found a big fat chunk of food weeks after, gripped my short hair around the length of his fingers, and eliminated the slightest space keeping us apart on the couch.
When he came in again, hot and urgent, with hooded eyelids and wet, tempting lips, I pushed against his chest, gasping for breath.
He didn’t appreciate the shove.
His jaw ticked.
I startled, mumbling, trying to save my last shred of dignity. “You…we…I….”
“Tell me to stop, and I will.”