Page 3 of Stalked & Bred by the BRATVA
Not because I’m in danger. But because part of me… part of me wants to know who slipped that nightgown into my drawer. Part of me wants to understand what it means. Why I feel safer here than I ever did in my own home.
Why, for the first time in my life, I feelseen.
Mikhail
I shouldn’t linger here. I should walk away, pour a drink, get on with the night. But I can’t stop watching her.
She’s in her small en suite bathroom, standing at the little sink with her back to the door. The overhead light is weak, throwing shadows across her hair, catching on the pale curve of her neck. She tips her head, fingers closing around a small bottle on the counter.
Her perfume.
Not the cloying, high-end stuff so many women drown themselves in. This is soft. Sweet. Lavender and vanilla. I know because I uncapped it earlier today, holding it under my nose while I moved it to the centre of the sink. Just enough to see if she’d notice.
She does. Her brows pinch, her lips press together, and she sets it back exactly where it was before. Like she’s restoring order to the world.
My world’s already in chaos.
She doesn’t know it, but she’s in my sights.
I stay until she goes to the drawers, until she opens the one I left for her, the one with the nightgown. Sapphire silk against the dull greys and cottons of her other clothes. Her fingers skim it like she’s afraid to hold on too tight. She hesitates, almost brings it to her face, then shakes her head.
That little display should be enough for today. But when she starts to unbutton her blouse, I have to force myself to leave my little hiding spot in the room beside hers before I give myself away.
By the time I’m in my room, I’m hard.
I don’t bother locking the door. No one comes in here unless I want them to. My brothers know better.
I shrug off my jacket, sit on the edge of my bed, and let the image of her play in my head like a reel I can’t switch off. Her slim fingers ghosting over the silk. The way her eyes widened when she first saw it. The hint of colour in her cheeks before she turned away.
I undo my belt, the sound loud in the silence, and free myself from my trousers. My cock is already thick, already aching, and I wrap my fist around it with a slow, deliberate grip.
I don’t rush.
Not when I can imagine the silk clinging to her skin, slipping over her shoulders as I push it down. Not when I can picture her standing in front of me, looking at me with those wide, unsure eyes, asking without words if she’s allowed to want this.
She would be. She will be.
I stroke harder, faster, my breath growing heavier. I think of her on my bed, hair spread out over the pillows, that sweet perfume clinging to her skin. I’d bury my face between her thighs just to see her squirm, just to hear her say my name. I’d have her trembling before I ever gave her my cock.
I lean back on one hand, squeezing tighter, imagining her gasping as I slide into her for the first time. She’d grip my shoulders, nails biting, trying to hold herself together as I push her past whatever limits she thinks she has.
My teeth grit. My hips thrust into my hand.
She has no idea what I’m going to do to her. How I’m going to keep her here, tangled up in my sheets, so thoroughly marked she won’t remember what it’s like not to belong to me.
The heat builds fast. My jaw locks. I picture her beneath me, bare and flushed, my spend on her stomach, her breasts, her face. Mine. Always mine.
It snaps through me, hot and relentless, and I spill over my hand with a low, guttural sound that would have scared her if she’d heard it.
I keep stroking until it hurts, until every last drop is wrung from me. Then I sit there for a moment, chest rising and falling, letting the images of her fade just enough for me to breathe again.
The mess on my hand is thick, hot. I stare at it for a beat, the primal part of me wishing I’d painted it across her skin instead, marked her so she couldn’t forget who she belongs to.
Soon.
I grab a cloth from the nightstand, clean up, and tuck myself away. But I’m not done thinking about her. I won’t be until I’ve made every one of these fantasies real.
Until she’s not just the girl in the servants’ wing.
