Page 17 of Marked & Bred By the Bratva
“Make sure you lock your door,” he adds when we reach our floor.
“I always do,” I whisper.
He nods.
My nipples harden. Heat floods my veins.
Lev turns and walks across the hall like nothing happened.
I stand there, pulse pounding, wondering what the hell is going on with me.
Back inside my place, I find my sleep shirt folded neatly on the bed.
It smells faintly like him. I brush that wild thought away. I probably still have his supercharged pheromones all up my nose. But I still press it to my face and inhale.
And I don’t stop myself when my hand drifts lower.
I know it’s just a fantasy. But I don’t care. I want more. Need it.
Ten
Lev
She’s dreaming again. I can tell by the way her hips roll under the sheets, her breath hitching softly in the dark. I slipped in hours ago quiet as ever. Checked that she drank the spiked water I left for her again. Tucked her in. Watched her turn and sigh like a little girl winding down. Now I kneel at the side of her bed, push the covers back, and drag my knuckles along the soft inside of her thigh. She doesn’t stir. Not when I spread her open. Not when I taste her. Not when I fuck her slowly with my fingers while my mouth feasts on her dripping cunt, and whisper, “Good girl, keep sleeping.” My eyes filled with her. Her scent and taste making me fucking dizzy. She moans when she comes. High and soft and so fucking sweet. I wipe my mouth with her nightshirt and tuck it under her pillow. She won’t remember this in the morning. But her body will.
Eleven
Ava
I’m not flirting. I mean Iamstanding outside my neighbor’s apartment holding a plate of cookies, which mightlooklike flirting. But it’s not. I’m just… being nice. A good neighbor. Like a totally normal, non-thirsty, not-currently-wearing-lip-gloss-on-purpose girl who didnotbake an entire batch of brown butter chocolate chip cookies at 11PM just to have an excuse to knock on his door.
That would be crazy.
This is… polite. Offering baked goods is what nice people do. Not that those polite people may have moaned their scary-hot neighbor’s name in their sleep last night.
(And the night before.)
(I am not okay.)
I shift from foot to foot and glance down at my shorts. I should’ve changed. These are a little… short. And tight. And I definitely shouldn’t have picked the oversized v-neck that falls off one shoulder and makes me look like a plus-size Hooters waitress. Whatever. It’s too late now.
I take a deep breath and knock.
There’s a pause.
Then the door opens.
AndJesus Christ.
He’s shirtless.
Just…shirtless. No warning. No tank top. No t-shirt. Just… skin. Tattoos. And muscle. And a thin layer of chest hair that makes my fingers itch for a touch. He’s wearing gray sweats and has a towel slung over his shoulder like he’s doing this on purpose. His hair’s damp. His jaw’s clenched. And hiseyes, God, they go straight to my thighs like he’s trying to set them on fire.
I forget English.
I forget how to breathe.
“…Hi,” I finally manage.
