Page 70 of Ruthless Bratva King

His lips curve into a smirk, but he doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. He just watches, his dark eyes burning with an intensity that threatens to consume me.

I arch into my own touch, my breath hitching as pleasure begins to build within me. But just as I feel myself teetering on the edge, he speaks again, his voice slicing through the haze of desire like a knife.

“Stop.”

I freeze, my body trembling with frustration. My eyes flicker to his, pleading, desperate. But he only smiles, a predatory gleam in his eyes.

“Again,” he commands, his voice firm. With shaking hands, I resume touching myself, my movements slower this time, more controlled. I can feel his eyes on me, his presence overwhelming, and it only adds to the ache building inside me.

As I near the edge once more, I brace myself for his command—and sure enough, it comes. “Stop.” My hands still, my chest heaving as I fight to catch my breath.

He steps closer, his fingers trailing along my jawline, tilting my chin up so our eyes meet. “Good girl,” he murmurs, his voice thick with approval. “You’re learning.”

I whimper softly, my body begging for release, but I know better than to disobey him. He releases my chin and steps back, crossing his arms over his chest as he continues to watch me. “Again,” he says, his tone brooking no argument.

This time, I’m more careful, moving with excruciating slowness to draw out the sensation. My body is taut with anticipation, every nerve ending alive and thrumming with need.

As I approach the edge once more, I glance at him, silently begging for permission. But he shakes his head, his expression stern.

“Not yet.”

Tears prick at the corners of my eyes, my frustration mounting with each passing second. But there’s something else too—a deep, aching longing that I can’t ignore. I belong to him, I remind myself. Every part of me is his to command.

His next command comes before I can recover. “Faster.” My heart skips a beat, but I obey, increasing the pace of my touch, my breath coming in short, sharp gasps.

Pleasure surges through me, swift and undeniable, but just as I’m about to tip over the edge, he says it again. “Stop.”

I cry out, my body writhing with the effort of holding back. He steps forward, his hand cupping my cheek, forcing me to meet his gaze.

“You’re doing so well, Elena,” he murmurs, his voice softening just enough to soothe the raw edges of my frustration. “But I’m not done with you yet.”

I nod, tears spilling over as I struggle to maintain control. He wipes them away with his thumb, his touch surprisingly gentle. “One more time,” he says, his voice dropping to a whisper. “For me.”

With trembling hands, I comply, my movements slower now, more deliberate. Every stroke sends jolts of pleasure through me, but I force myself to hold back, to wait for his signal. When I’m right on the brink, I look at him, my eyes wide and pleading.

This time, he doesn’t stop me. “Come,” he commands, his voice rough with need. And just like that, I shatter, my body convulsing with the force of my release.

My legs buckle, but he is there, catching me, holding me close as waves of pleasure wash over me.

He brushes a strand of hair from my face, his expression softer now, almost tender. “That’s my good girl,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to my forehead.

His touch lingers on my skin, as though he’s memorizing the curve of my hip, the line of my spine. It’s not like him to be so quiet.

Usually, after we make love, there’s a teasing remark, a whispered endearment, or at least the steady rhythm of his fingers tracing patterns against my skin.

Not this time.

“Dmitri,” I whisper, my voice breaking the silence. “What’s wrong?”

For a moment, I think he’s going to answer. His body tenses slightly, his hand tightening on my hip. But then he exhales, the sound heavy with unspoken words, and I know he won’t tell me.

“Nothing,” he says softly, his lips brushing my shoulder. “Rest.”

But I can’t. I lie still, staring up at the ceiling, feeling the weight of his silence press down on me. He’s here, but he isn’t. Whatever’s haunting him is keeping him locked away, just out of reach.

My chest tightens with the ache of it, the gnawing doubt that I’ve let myself fall too far, too fast. I want to believe him, to trust him, but his silence feels like a wall between us, growing taller every moment.

He shifts beside me, pulling me closer, his arm tightening protectively around my waist. The gesture feels almost desperate, as if he’s holding onto something he’s afraid to lose.

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