Page 22 of Stalked & Bred by the BRATVA
I strip out of my uniform slowly, folding it neatly, placing it on the back of the chair even though my hands are shaking. I don’t know what I’m doing until I’m already doing it.
I open the drawer.
The nightgown is still there, warm from my body the night before, the faintest scent of him still clinging to it. But now there’s a note.
In the same writing as the one before, the word Tonight stares up at me, followed by a dash and his name.
Mikhail.
The brother no one talks about.
I slide the nightgown over my skin. It feels different now. He’s touched me in this. Held me in this. Watched me come apart in it. It’s not just a gift anymore. It’s a promise.
I sit on the edge of the bed for a long time, staring at the door. The house is quiet. I can hear the occasional creak of the wood, the low hum of the heating system. I don’t lock it.
This time… I want him to come in. Not just because I’m wet again. Not just because I can still feel him between my legs. But because I want to see what happens when I stop pretending I’m scared. Because I’m not.
I’mready.
I climb into bed, pull the covers up to my waist, and lie on my back. My nipples are already tight, brushing against the silk. My thighs are slick, and I swear I can still feel the ghost of his fingers inside me.
I close my eyes and wait. It doesn’t take long. The door opens slowly. Quietly. But not like before. Before, he crept. Now, he enters like hebelongs.
I keep my eyes shut until I feel the air shift. The way it always does when he’s near.
Then I open them.
He’s standing at the end of the bed, chest rising slowly, hands curled at his sides. His eyes rake down my body, dark and hungry and possessive in a way that makes my breath catch.
“You’re wearing it again,” he says, voice like gravel and smoke.
“I wanted to.”
His eyes flash. “You left the door open.”
“I wanted to.”
He doesn’t move for a second. I can see the restraint in every line of his body.
Then he speaks again.
“Say it.”
My heart slams against my ribs.
“Say what?”
“That you want me.”
I swallow hard. “You already know.”
He comes closer. Not slow this time. Not cautious.
He climbs onto the bed like a man who’s been holding back for far too long. He doesn’t ask again. He doesn’t need to.
“Please,” I whisper, desperation strangling my voice.
His mouth crashes down on mine and I melt. There’s nothing careful about it. It’s wild. Possessive. Hot and open and consuming. His hands are everywhere, gripping my hips, sliding up my ribs, cupping my breasts through the silk until I moan into his mouth.
