Page 9 of Owned & Bred by the BRATVA

I’m panting now, frustrated, aching, close but not close enough to something I don’t even know. I try to push deeper, to replicate the feeling of being held, touched, owned, but it’s wrong. My hand isn’t big enough. My touch isn’t cruel enough. I can’ttakewhat I need.

Tears spring to my eyes. It’s too much. It’s not enough. I can’t stop shaking. I can’t stopwanting.

I bolt upright, breath ragged.

And I know.

I have to go to him.

Shame clings to me like a second skin, but it’s nothing compared to the hunger. It doesn’t matter that I swore I wouldn’t give in. It doesn’t matter that I don’t even understand what he’s doing to me.

All that matters is this wildfire under my skin, and the only man who can put it out.

I don’t knock when I reach his door. I open it, bare feet silent on the dark floors. The room is dim, golden, the fire low but still alive. He’s sitting in a chair by the hearth, shirt undone, glass in hand. Like he’s been waiting.

His eyes meet mine. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t move.

I walk toward him slowly, every step cracking me open a little more.

“I tried,” I whisper.

He tilts his head. “Tried what?”

“To make it stop.” My voice breaks. “To do it myself. To make it go away. But I couldn’t. I can’t—” I falter, breath shaking. “I want it to stop and I don’t want it to stop. What’s wrong with me?”

The glass leaves his hand. He stands, slow and controlled, but I see the tension ripple through him. The tight coil in his shoulders. The restraint, barely holding.

“Are you asking me to touch you, Clara?” he asks, voice like silk over steel.

I nod.

His eyes flash. “No more running?”

“No more running.”

That’s all it takes.

He’s on me in a single step, his hands gripping my face, his mouth crashing into mine. Hot, possessive, devouring. I whimper against his lips, opening for him like I’ve been waiting forever. His tongue claims my mouth, teeth scraping my lower lip, and I melt into him, trembling with needy relief.

His hands slide down my sides, rough palms against silk, until he finds the hem of my dress and yanks it upward.

“This is mine now,” he growls, voice low and dangerous.

Then he turns me and nudges me toward the bar, lifting me like I weigh nothing, until I’m perched on the edge of the gleaming wood.

The hunger in his eyes promises everything I’ve ever been denied.

And I want every filthy, beautiful second of it.

He snatches the thin lace of the thong I’m wearing and tears it from me before grabbing the bottle of whiskey and opening it, never taking his eyes from mine. He pours the whiskey on the space between my thighs and I gasp, only to let out a long moan when his mouth lands over my most delicate place.

My cry echoes off the walls the moment his mouth seals over me and sucks.

Hot. Wet. Devouring.

The whiskey stings slightly, a burn that fades into heat and sensation so sharp it steals the breath from my lungs. I brace my palms on the polished wood behind me, legs spread wide, chest heaving as he licks through the mess he made. His tongue is firm and slow, then teasing and rough. He groans against me like I’m his favorite meal, like he’s been starving and now he’ll never get enough.

I should be embarrassed. Ashamed. I’m spread open, completely exposed, doused in alcohol, perched on a bar like a desperate little slut. But I’m not ashamed. I’m alive. Every nerve is on fire. Every inch of me screamsmore.

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