Page 52 of Forced Bratva Prisoner

She is fucking gorgeous.

Her face is flushed, and her hair is wild. There is a faint trace of my handprint over her mouth from clamping down to keep her quiet. It looks so fucking sexy on her.

She licks her lips nervously and struggles to make eye contact with me. Her gaze is shifting all over the small dressing room.

“I need to get dressed,” she mumbles shyly.

“I’ll—I’ll be waiting outside,” I say calmly, then pull the door of the changing room open and go out to sit on the sofa again. I half expected to be greeted by a dozen employees, all come to kick us out, but apparently, I managed to keep her quiet enough that no one heard what we are up to.

That was not supposed to happen, though. We are not supposed to do that.

That should never have happened.

And I should not have enjoyed it so much, and I should definitely not want more the moment I step away from her.

I have never connected with someone like that before. It’s never felt so intense and heated and passionate.

How can I regret it when it felt—almost—perfect.

I shake my head and run my hands through my hair.

I’m being ridiculous. She’s my prisoner. There is no connection.

This is just the aftermath of what happened taunting my mind.

Sasha steps out of the dressing room, only holding the dress that she was wearing when I fucked her a few moments ago.

“I, um, I think we need to get this one.” She bites her lip, still not making eye contact. Her cheeks are still glowing.

“Yeah. I doubt anyone else would be too pleased to know what happened in it if we leave it behind,” I chuckle.

She giggles as well, but I can see she is feeling just as awkward as I am.

Did she feel the same things I felt in the changing room? It seemed like it was as intense for her as it was for me.

“I think you should get all of the dresses. They all looked good on you,” I say, trying to at least hold some kind of a conversation.

She shrugs her shoulders a little. “I don’t really have anywhere to wear them.”

I follow her to the check-out counter and she places the dress on the table. The lady lifts it up and Sasha takes a deep, nervous breath. She is terrified that the woman might know what just happened, but I’m convinced no one heard us and the only reason the lady is being is weird is because of how awkward Sasha looks. I chuckle quietly to myself.

After paying for the dress, with the lady looking at us as though she knows something and Sasha’s cheeks growing more and more red by the second, we head out to the car again.

Sasha is practically running to get out of the mall, and I pick up my pace to keep up with her, my long strides comfortably matching her little jog.

She climbs into the car without waiting for me to open the door and quickly closes it behind herself.

I chuckle again. Yes, she is definitely feeling just as awkward or confused as I am.

But now, what am I supposed to do about this?

How do I deal with the fact that I am this attracted or connected to the girl I am supposed to be torturing and keeping as a prisoner?

It was so much easier when she pushed me away the other day—then I could be annoyed with her. But now—now I know she wanted it as much as I did.

It’s something that I might have to talk to her about, before it drives me crazy, but I don’t have any idea what to say or how to deal with it. I don’t even know what I think about it.

So instead of talking, we just drive in very heavy silence back through town, towards home.

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