Page 22 of Owned & Bred by the BRATVA

I’m not just his.

I’mmine.

And for the first time, I can feel it. Deep in my bones, steady in my spine. I am not a girl anymore. I am not a secret, or a burden, or a pawn in someone else’s game. I am a woman who makes a man like Maksim Vasiliev tremble.

I trace the edge of his jaw with my fingertip, lightly, barely touching. He stirs but doesn’t wake. I wonder what he would say if he knew what I was thinking. If he knew that every time he touches me, he isn’t just breaking me, he’s building me.

Part of me still wonders what my father would say if he saw me now. If he’d recognize me. If he’d try to fix it. Undo it. Take me back. But another part, steadier now, knows that he can’t. He doesn’t own me anymore. He never did. He just filled the space where love should have been with silence and shame. And I let him.

But not anymore.

If he comes, I don’t know what I’ll say. I don’t know what I’ll feel.

But I do know this: He can’t reach me now.

Not here. Not with Maksim beside me.

And not with this fire in my chest finally burning bright enough to see myself clearly.

Maksim

She stirs in the early light, a slow stretch that presses her soft curves deeper into me. I feel it immediately, her heat, her sleep-warm skin, the flutter of her breath when she realizes I’m already awake and watching her. She doesn’t speak. She doesn’t need to. Her body says everything.

I shift beneath the sheets and trail my fingers down her spine, tracing each ridge slowly, reverently, until I reach the dip at the base of her back. She arches instinctively, her hips pressing into the mattress, and I smile into her shoulder.

“Good morning,” I murmur, my voice rough from sleep.

She mumbles something into the pillow, but when I slide my hand lower and cup the warmth between her thighs, her legs part without hesitation.

That’s all the answer I need.

I shift down the bed, pressing gentle kisses across her back, her hips, the curve of her ass. I pull her onto her side, one leg draped over mine, and then I settle between her thighs and begin with my tongue. No teasing this time. No edge of cruelty. Justworship.

She gasps, her hand flying to my hair as I lick through the mess I left there last night. Her taste is salt and sweetness and surrender, and I groan against her, my cock already thick and dripping with need.

I press two fingers into her, slow and careful, while my mouth suckles her thick lips before moving to her sensitive pearl. She’s still tender. Still swollen. But she lets me in, her moans broken and beautiful, and I feel her hips start to rock, her thighs quiver.

She’s close already.

I lift my mouth from her only long enough to whisper, “I want to make you fall apart again. Can I?”

Her nod is frantic, her breath coming in little gasps. “Yes, please…”

I slip my fingers deeper and stroke that soft, spongy spot inside her. Then I press the pad of my thumb to her back entrance, teasing her tight little hole. She tenses, then melts as I ease it in. Slow, patient, careful.

She cries out, high and helpless.

“Good girl,” I murmur, kissing the inside of her thigh. “You take everything I give you, don’t you?”

Her answer is a sob, her body grinding into my mouth, her orgasm spiraling through her so fast it knocks the air from her lungs. She clenches around my fingers, her body locking tight and then shattering all over again. I stay there, licking softly, easing her down as her breath hiccups and her hands fist in the sheets while my cock leaks precum like never before.

I love her like this, wrecked and trembling. I could spend the entire day between her legs, taking her apart and putting her back together.

But then my phone vibrates once, sharp and distinct, on the bedside table.

I almost ignore it. Not wanting to remove my digits from her holes. Wanting to bring her to the edge, and over it, again and again until she begs for mercy.

Then I see the name.

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