Page 63 of Forced Virgin Bride of the Bratva
“You let them touch you?” I murmur against her skin. My voice is low, dangerous, half control, half need.
“No,” she breathes.
Her answer is instant. Unthinking. Honest.
That does something to me. Something worse than jealousy. Something like possession.
I pick her up without another word. She’s soft in my arms, but her hands are wild—clawing at my shoulders, pulling me closer, nails scoring skin like she’s marking every inch. I lay her down hard, and she moans at the impact, her back arching as I strip off my shirt.
She watches me. Her eyes dark, lips parted, chest rising and falling like she’s been running.
I slide my hand between her thighs and find her already soaked. I don’t tease.
I push her panties aside and sink two fingers in, deep, precise. Her legs jerk, mouth falling open on a broken sound, butI don’t give her time to catch her breath. My thumb finds her clit, rubbing slow, brutal circles until she’s twisting under me, helpless and breathless.
“Say my name,” I growl.
She moans it, barely audible—“Maxim….”
“Louder.”
“Maxim.”
That’s better.
I slide down her body, dragging my mouth across her hip, her inner thigh, licking the edge of her need but never fully giving in. She’s shaking by the time I finally put my mouth on her—open, wet, demanding. Her hands fly to my hair, her thighs clamping around my head as I devour her. Every moan is a plea. Every jerk of her hips a confession.
She comes hard, writhing beneath me, my name tangled in the wreckage of her voice.
I don’t stop, I don’t let her rest.
I rise over her, undoing my belt, dragging my jeans down just enough. Her eyes widen when she sees how hard I am, how much I’ve held back.
She opens for me without being told. My control slips when I sink into her. She’s tight. Hot. Drenched.
I have to bite down on a curse as her body clamps around me, pulsing and perfect. I grip her thighs, pull them over my hips, and start to move.
Fast. Brutal. No rhythm at first, just pure need. Weeks of restraint breaking all at once.
She takes it. All of it. Her fingers dig into my shoulders, her mouth open in soundless gasps. Her breasts bounce withevery thrust, her legs wrapped tight around me like she’s trying to hold me in.
“You’re mine,” I growl into her neck. “Say it.”
“I’m yours,” she gasps.
I thrust harder.
“Again.”
“I’m yours, Maxim—yours—”
That’s what undoes me.
I grab her wrists, pin them above her head, and slam into her until the bed creaks and the air is full of nothing but breath and skin and the wet sounds of our bodies colliding. She’s gasping, sobbing, whispering my name like it’s sacred. Like I’m holy.
She comes again, and this time I follow.
I stay buried inside her, panting against her neck, lips brushing sweat-slick skin. My weight presses her into the mattress, but she doesn’t push me away. Her arms come up around my back, holding me there, grounding me.
