Page 13 of Owned & Bred by the BRATVA

But now… now there’s heat in my blood. Fire in my chest. Something wild and strange curled up in my ribs, purring when he touches me.

I glance down and see the bruises blooming on my hips, the faint bite marks along my shoulder. He didn’t mark me to hurt me. He marked me tokeepme.

And I let him.

God help me, I wanted him to.

His fingers twitch, and I realize he’s awake. He doesn’t speak, not right away. He just tightens his arm around me, dragging me back against the thick wall of his chest until I can feel all of him. Hot, solid, unmovable.

“Morning,” he says against my hair, voice thick with sleep and sex.

I don’t answer. I don’t trust my voice.

His lips brush the curve of my ear, slow and indulgent. “You’re sore,” he murmurs, not asking. Just stating what he already knows. “I like that.”

I breathe out shakily, unsure if I want to laugh or cry. “Of course you do.”

“You took me so well,” he continues, dragging his mouth down my neck. “You let me fill you. Twice. I’m so proud of you.”

Heat floods my cheeks. My thighs instinctively press together, but his leg is already there, between mine, keeping me open.

“You’re still wet for me,” he says, his tone shifting, rougher now. Hungrier. “Even now.”

I try to twist away, but he only follows, sliding his hand from my stomach to between my thighs. His fingers press into the slick heat there, and I gasp, sharp and helpless.

“You see?” he whispers. “Your body knows who you belong to.”

I hate how right he is. I hate how quickly I arch into his hand, how easily my legs fall open, how natural it feels to be touched like this now. Like I was just waiting for someone to ruin me properly.

Like I’ve been ruined and rebuilt already, exactly as he wants me.

“Stop thinking,” he says, mouth now on my shoulder. “Just feel.”

“I don’t know who I am anymore,” I whisper.

His hand returns to my belly, splayed possessively again, his palm warm and broad and steady.

“You’re mine,” he says simply. “That’s all you ever have to be.”

Something in me buckles.

I don’t fight him when he rolls me onto my back. I don’t protest when he covers my body with his, when he spreads my legs and settles between them. I don’t resist when he kisses me, slow and deep, tongue stroking mine like a promise he’ll keep making until I forget I was ever untouched.

I don’t know how to stop it.

The wanting.

The ache blooms again the moment his fingers find me, slow and sure and devastating. My thighs spread apart even morewithout permission. My breath catches. And he kisses my neck as if this is the most natural thing in the world, as if waking up inside me and making me come again is just how the day begins now.

“Maksim,” I whisper, half-plea, half-warning.

He doesn’t stop.

His fingers slide through the thick heat he left inside me. My cheeks burn at the wet sound, the obscene slickness of him still dripping from me. But he doesn’t flinch. He growls like it’s the most perfect thing he’s ever touched.

“I love how you feel,” he murmurs. “All warm and messy and mine.”

One thick finger slips inside me, slow and steady. I gasp, my hips rising off the bed. He groans softly against my neck.

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