Silken Chains (Bond by Morozov Bratva Book 1) (Bond by Morozov Bratva Series)

HE CAN kiss. God, can he kiss.

It’s like he’s read the manual on my mouth, written it, and then set it on fire. Maybe it’s the whiskey’s fault, lending him talents, but as his tongue tangles with mine, I know no bourbon’s that good.

His hand’s firm on my jaw, guiding me into a kiss that’s all heat and hunger. His lips are soft, but the rest of him is all hard muscle. He’s got me in a grip that says he’s not letting go anytime soon, like I’m the oasis he’s been dying to find in his personal desert.

I feel his hand locked on my back, as if he’s afraid I’ll bolt. Maybe I should. He’s holding me like I’m the answer to questions I’m not sure I want to ask.

Despite the cold logic in my brain, my body’s melting into his. I hate that I’ve craved this—his taste, the pressure of his mouth, the scrape of his stubble. I tiptoe up, fingers weaving through the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer.

His growl vibrates from his chest to mine, a sound that sends pleasure spiraling down to my toes. As I let out a tiny whimper, his grip tightens, his hand slipping up to claim my neck, his thumb resting just below my ear, a silent command of possession.

Fuck, this man’s got me twisted up inside more than any pretzel I’ve ever seen. His kiss tastes like a warning—of chaos, of ruin, of raw desire so potent it should have its own name. My heart hammers, fighting for space in my chest with every labored breath I take.

And oh, my God, I want him more than I’ve wanted anything in a long time. It’s maddening to admit, but I’ve been craving this since our eyes first locked.

This is fucking insane. I don’t even know him!

Wrapped up in his arms, I’m like some heroine in a midlife-crisis romance novel. And there’s a whole divorce and criminal charges waiting to happen once I track down that dick, David.

I should stop this.

But then there’s this voice in my head, loud and clear: Why the hell should you?

It’s like my body knows what it wants before I do. My hands splay on his chest as if I could actually push him away.

Spoiler alert: I can’t. 

The guy’s built like a tank. I push against him with all I’ve got, trying to break the kiss, but it’s like trying to move a skyscraper with sheer will.

“What are you doing, kiska?” His voice is a low rumble. Lips linger.

“Trying to push you away,” I breathe out, but who am I kidding? My body’s not on board with this plan, not one bit.

He looks down at my hands against his chest, a hint of amusement in his eyes. “Not working, is it?” His expression is all cocky confidence, a smile that screams trouble.

And then, just like that, I’m air, I’m nothing—he’s got me lifted against him, and we’re moving. I can feel the cold bite of the night against my legs as he secures the coat around me, and for a second, I’m grateful—until I see where we’re headed.

“Put me down!” I demand, my heart racing as he strides across the road toward Hotel V, a luxurious boutique hotel that looks like a room costs more than my yearly rent. It stands opposite Club V, a beacon of opulence and sin.

“Little firecracker,” he murmurs, his breath warm against my hair. “It’s too late.”

“Too late for what?” My voice is a husky whisper, lost in the whirlwind of his presence.

He chuckles, his eyes dark pools of desire as he looks down at me. “I changed my mind; you’re not going home tonight.”

“But you said—”

I try to argue back, but he cuts me off. “Little firecracker,” he says, and it’s like a shot to the heart. “You should’ve thought of that before playing with matches.”

My whole body goes on high alert, every nerve ending firing up. I feel a flush creep over my skin, my pulse races, and I hate how my body’s betraying me—how it’s responding to his words.

“Let me go. I’m serious,” I insist, even as my voice cracks.

“I’m serious, too. You’re mine now,” he says with a possession that should scare me but instead sends a thrill down my spine. My cheeks are on fire, and I can feel that heat spreading, coiling low in my belly.

I squirm again, desperation lending me strength, but he’s unyielding. “Victor,” I warn.

“Stop fighting,” he commands, and I freeze, his words striking me dumb. “You’ve got to learn to be a good little girl, or I’ll have to spank that tight little pussy until you cum.”

“Oh, my God!” I can’t help the exclamation that slips out. I mean, who says that?

I stay still nonetheless, my eyes wide, my heart pounding out of control. “Good girl,” he murmurs with approval, kissing my forehead.

“Victor!” I manage to say, my voice a mix of indignation and something dangerously close to desire.

“Yes, that’s it, little firecracker. Soon, you’ll be saying my name just like that, but for a whole different reason.”

In my head, a million sirens are wailing, telling me this is insane, this is not me. I’m the woman who makes lists, who plans, who certainly doesn’t get swept up by some… some dangerously magnetic guy. Yet here I am, carried like a doll by a man who’s threatening to spank me.

And the craziest part?

It makes me horny as hell.

It turns out he is Russian.

Victor sweeps through the doors of Hotel V. The doorman’s swift greeting, “Mr. Morozov,” barely registers as I’m carried like a sack of rebellious potatoes into the hotel.

Yep, he’s definitely a VIP.

The hotel’s interior hits me like a swanky, velvet-lined hammer. Plush red carpets that probably cost more than my apartment, walls that seem to have been kissed by King Midas himself, and golden sconces casting a light so sultry it feels like it’s undressing me.

He skips the front desk like it’s not even there, heading straight for the elevator. I’m in his arms, light as a rag doll, while he strides through his turf. The staff’s quick, wary glances tell me everything—this is his show.

He punches the penthouse button like it’s an old habit. Do they just give penthouse access to anyone who’s tall, dark, and scary?

Or is this like, his standard Friday night routine? Elevator rides to the penthouse with the flavor of the week?

Something else stirs in my gut—jealousy? No way, he’s practically a stranger.

Questions bubble up, but they’re on ice for now. I’m stuck to him, the heat of his body making all the looming doubts take a backseat.

But, oh God, what am I even thinking?

This isn’t just crossing the line; this is catapulting over it. And still, his warmth, his scent, it’s like a drug, and I’m embarrassingly tempted to take another hit. My body is betraying every rational thought with its traitorous longing.

“Victor,” I say again, trying to infuse some kind of reprimand into my voice, but it comes out more like a whisper, a plea. It’s ridiculous, I know. I should be fighting, arguing, demanding to be put down. Instead, I’m melting, and I hate myself a little for it.

The elevator dings, snapping me back to the present.

We’re here, wherever “here” is.

And despite every screaming neuron in my brain, I can’t deny the thrill that courses through me.