Page 41 of Forced Virgin Bride of the Bratva
I lift my eyes slowly, heart thudding against my ribs. “I didn’t know if you’d come.”
He doesn’t reply right away. Instead, he reaches out, fingers brushing my chin, tilting it up until our eyes meet. His touch is careful, deceptively soft, but there’s tension thrumming beneath it—restrained, coiled. Like he’s holding back something sharp, something dangerous.
His thumb grazes the corner of my mouth.
He murmurs something in Russian—quiet, meant only for me. I don’t understand the words, but the sound curls through me like smoke. It steals the breath from my lungs.
Then he leans in. His lips brush mine: slow, testing, barely there. My pulse stumbles. I don’t pull away.
He kisses me again, deeper this time.
Measured, but hungry. A question and an answer wrapped in the same breath.
The robe slips from my shoulders with a whisper of silk, pooling at my elbows. His gaze drops.
He sees the lingerie beneath: ivory lace stretched across my curves, delicate and deliberate. His jaw tightens, just enough to betray it. The heat in his eyes sharpens.
Maxim doesn’t speak.
His hands find my waist, fingers splaying wide, reverent as they slide down my sides. Slow. Possessive. Like he’s mapping something he intends to remember. My breath catches, and still he goes lower—over the flare of my hips, the softness of my thighs, until I’m trembling beneath his touch.
I feel like a match held too long near flame.
He guides me back against the pillows, and the bed accepts me like it was waiting. His mouth follows. Lips find the line of my throat, then lower: tracing my collarbone, the tops ofmy breasts, everywhere but where I ache for him most. I arch under him without meaning to, my body begging before I’ve said a word.
His hands don’t shake, but I feel the strain in them. The pull of his control—tight, razor-thin. He peels away the lace from my body piece by piece, slow enough to make me ache, deliberate enough to make me whimper.
I want to ask him to go faster. I want him to devour me.
When his mouth covers mine again, I stop pretending I ever had restraint to begin with.
He doesn’t speak when he presses into me—just watches. Eyes locked on mine, so steady it makes my stomach flip. His body slides against mine with slow, deliberate control, like he’s warning me that once we begin, there’s no turning back.
The first thrust is deep, and it feels nothing like I imagined. His cock is hard and thick, thicker than I realized, and it feels me so wonderfully that I wonder why I waited so long.
I gasp.
He holds there, not moving. Waiting. Letting me feel every inch of him. “Too much?” he murmurs, his voice a graveled hush. “I’ve never taken a virgin before.”
I shake my head, cheeks flushed. “No. Don’t stop.”
His hands flex on my hips. He starts again—slow, languid strokes that draw out the burn of pressure, the spark of need. My fingers clutch at his back, nails digging into the skin where his muscles flex and tighten with each movement.
The eye contact doesn’t break. He watches me as he moves, and it’s almost too much. No place to hide. No room for pretending.
“You’re mine,” he whispers, voice low against my ear. “Do you understand that?”
A shiver runs through me. I nod, but he’s not satisfied with that.
“Say it.”
“You—” My voice catches as he thrusts again, deeper this time. “You’re right.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
I don’t answer with words. I arch into him, hips lifting to meet his. It’s all the answer he needs. His mouth finds my throat, kisses hard enough to leave heat in their wake but not enough to bruise. Not yet.
His hands roam down my sides, over the curve of my waist, to the softness of my thighs. He touches like he’s memorizing, like every inch of me matters.
