Page 99 of Forced Plus-Size Bride of the Bratva

My neck. My chest. A pause over the long gash near my ribs, her mouth pressing there softly, reverent. Not worship, not pity—just understanding. A quiet act of acknowledgment.

She climbs over me slowly, straddling my hips, the hem of her shirt brushing my skin. Her hair falls around her shoulders, loose and wild, eyes locked on mine like she’s waiting for something to crack.

My hands settle on her thighs—not guiding, not pressing. Just grounding.

Letting her know I’m here. Letting her know she can take everything she wants, and I won’t stop her.

Her body moves—slow, intentional. She rolls her hips, testing the pressure, finding the rhythm. Her breath catches as my cock hardens against her thigh.

Then she gasps my name—against my jaw, into my skin, as if the sound belongs there.

I close my eyes.

And for the first time in a long, long time—

I let go.

She gasps my name against my jaw, and it’s all I can do not to flip her over and take control.

Her hips roll again, slower, more certain, and my fingers flex against her thighs. I keep them there—still—not because I don’t want to touch her, but because this isn’t about me. It’s about her choosing this, me, after everything. Not because she owes me, not because she’s scared or grateful. She wants to.

She leans down, her mouth brushing my throat, soft and warm, and I feel her pulse against my skin. Her hands brace beside my head, and her weight settles over me fully—familiar now, but different. She moves with purpose. With focus. Her thighs squeeze just slightly, and she rocks forward, breath catching again as the friction builds. The sound she makes—quiet, helpless—is almost enough to undo me.

“Alina…,” I grit out, but the warning in my voice is thin, nearly gone.

She lifts her head, meets my eyes.

“Don’t stop me.”

I couldn’t if I tried.

She reaches between us, guiding us together. There’s a beat—a pause—her eyes locked to mine. One breath. Two. Then she lowers herself onto me slowly, inch by inch, her jaw tightening, her body adjusting around the stretch.

My hands grip the edge of the mattress.

She’s warm. Tight. Alive around me.

She exhales a quiet moan as she sinks down fully, her palms sliding up my chest, anchoring herself there. Her head bows, hair falling in a curtain around her face.

Her hips begin to move—gently at first, her pace slow and deliberate, learning what we both like. Her body moves like water over flame, steady but consuming. Every shift draws another hitched breath from her lips, another quiet sound that makes my control fray further.

Her hands explore me like a map—over the scars, the muscles, the bruises left behind. She rides me with care, with intention, with something that feels like reverence and vengeance and forgiveness all braided into one.

She leans forward, her mouth finding mine again. This kiss is different—deeper, searching, as if the words she can’t say are buried there. My hands finally rise, one cradling her jaw, the other gripping her hip, holding her to me, helping her move.

We fall into rhythm.

She whimpers my name again, breaking against my mouth, her fingers curling against my chest. Her body tenses, her thighs trembling, the pulse between us growing faster, hotter, harder.

Then she shudders as the orgasm washes over her.

Her release is soft but powerful, wracking through her in waves, her body pressing down into mine. I follow soon after, the pressure too much, the way she clings to me undoing what little restraint I had left.

I spill inside of her with a groan, head tipped back as my vision blurs.

After, we stay like that—her on top of me, both of us panting in the dim warmth of the room, the rain still tapping faintly at the windows.

Alina rests beside me, the weight of her body a warm, steady presence against my side.

---