Page 19 of Stalked & Bred by the BRATVA
It’s not just in my skin, it’s in my chest, my stomach, between my legs. I’m soaked. Desperate. The kind of desperate that makes you forget who you were before someone looked at you like that.
I can still feel his hands on me. His mouth. The way he held me against the shelf like he’d already decided I belonged there. And I let him. I wanted him to.
I still do.
I press my thighs together under the covers, but it’s no good. My whole body is tight and empty and begging for more.
This is insane.
I shouldn’t want him. I should be scared. I was scared. But that’s gone now, or maybe it’s changed into something else. Something worse.
I close my eyes and picture him again. The way he looked in the moonlight. The low command in his voice. The heat in his stare.
My hand slides under the blanket, trembling, but I can’t stop. I press my palm between my legs, feel how wet I am, and let out a soft gasp.
I’m going to lose my mind.
The door creaks.
I freeze. My hand stills. My breath catches. And then—
His voice. Low. Rough. “Don’t stop.”
I can’t see him in the dark, but I feel him. His presence fills the room like smoke, curling into the corners of my mind.
“Let me see,” he says.
I should tell him to leave. I should pull the blanket up and roll over. But instead, my hand moves again. Slow. Deliberate.
I slide my fingers lower, parting myself, and moan as I find that place that’s already throbbing for him.
He steps closer. I hear the quiet shift of his shoes on the floor. My heartbeat slams in my chest. I’m so wet my fingers glide with no resistance.
“Good girl,” he murmurs.
I whimper.
The blanket is pulled back. Gently. Carefully.
The moonlight spills across my body. The nightgown is bunched around my hips, the silk already damp. I should be ashamed. But I’m not.
I want him to see.
I want him totouch.
“Open your legs for me.”
I obey.
His hand comes down on my thigh, firm and possessive. His fingers trail up, slow and hot, until he’s brushing against mine.
“You want help?” he asks, voice dark with hunger.
“Yes.”
He brushes my hand aside and replaces it with his own.
The first touch makes me cry out. He strokes me with maddening precision, circling, pressing, teasing until I’m grinding against his fingers like I’ve forgotten who I am.
