A Taste of the Bratva King
My palms flatten against his heated flesh, mapping the topography of his torso while he watches me with eyes gone dark as storm clouds.
"Beautiful," I whisper, tracing the line of a scar that curves along his ribs. "You're so beautiful, Sergei."
His laugh is rough, disbelieving. "Men aren't beautiful, milaya."
"You are." I lean forward to press a kiss directly over his heart, feeling the rapid rhythm beneath my lips. "Every scar tells a story. Every line shows how strong you are, how much you've survived. You're beautiful because you're alive, because you're here with me."
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