Page 64 of Forced Virgin Bride of the Bratva
We’re still connected, in every possible way. My cock still hard inside her, twitching with aftershocks.
I kiss her jaw. Her cheek. The corner of her mouth.
She turns her head, catches my lips with hers, slower this time. Deeper. Her tongue slides against mine, and I groan into her mouth, the tension between us shifting—still charged, but now it burns lower, deeper.
I pull out slowly. She shudders at the drag of it.
I move down again, mouth finding the slick mess between her thighs, tasting the blend of us. She moans—high, helpless—and jerks when I suck her clit back into my mouth, two fingers sliding back inside.
She’s already spent, but I want more.
I want everything.
Her cries rise again, louder now, raw with oversensitivity, her hands flying to my hair, trying to push me away, then pull me closer. I don’t relent. I hold her hips down, feasting on her like I’ve earned the right.
She comes again with a sob, body arching so hard she nearly slips from my grasp.
Only then do I crawl back up, kissing every inch I can reach. Her collarbone. Her throat. Her mouth.
I roll her over onto her stomach, lift her hips, and take her again.
Slower, but deeper. Every thrust now is a promise. A threat. A confession I’ll never speak aloud.
I press one hand to the back of her neck, holding her steady while I fuck her through it—through the guilt, the silence, the heat that never really left us.
She moans into the pillow, her fingers clutching the sheets, her body yielding to mine like it’s the only thing it knows how to do.
When we both come again, shaking, spent, ruined—I stay.
She falls asleep not long after.
Still naked, still warm, curled slightly into my side like some soft thing that doesn’t know it’s lying beside a man who ruins whatever he touches. Her hand flutters near my chest, fingertips brushing the space between my ribs like she’s reaching for something even in her dreams. A small sound leaves her throat—gentle, involuntary—and it burrows under my skin, subtle but unbearable.
I lie still. Eyes open. Staring up at the dark sweep of the ceiling while the city hums low and distant through the glass.
My hand is on her back, dragging slow lines along the dip of her spine, barely touching, but I know the shape of every inch now. I know where she arches. Where she breaks. Where she clutches the sheets like they’ll save her from drowning.
Still, none of that explains the ache in my chest.
I should move. I should get up, put space between us, draw the lines again before they blur into something worse than lust. But I don’t. I stay. I let my fingers trace her skin. I feel her breathing slow, the weight of her settle like she’s never known danger, like she’s never been raised by wolves.
She’s too trusting, and I’ve never deserved that kind of closeness from anyone. I should remind myself that this is all part of something else. A longer game. A twisted knot of power and betrayal neither of us fully understands yet.
She’s so fucking quiet beside me. So still. That quiet—it doesn’t soothe me. It disturbs me. Because I’m used to chaos, to struggle, to resistance. And she gives me none of that now. Not because she’s broken. Because she chose this. Chose to let me in. Chose to stay.
Her lips part again in sleep. Her brow softens. She breathes like she’s at peace and that ruins me.
She’s supposed to be a liability. A means to an end. Someone I took as leverage, as punishment. A name on a list. A way to settle the blood between us. And now—now she’s a woman tangled in my sheets, moaning my name like it’s sacred, curling into my side like I’m safe.
Her hand shifts again, pressing lightly to my sternum, and I feel that flutter deep in my ribs. Like a warning. Like a promise.
I tell myself I’ll deal with it later. The tenderness. The pull. The need that isn’t rooted in sex or dominance,but something worse—something gentler. I can bury that. I’ve buried worse.
Right now, she’s sleeping.
Right now, she’s mine.
And I let her rest.
