Page 5 of Marked & Bred By the Bratva
It’s three forty-seven in the morning. She made the mistake of taking an antihistamine before bed. I watched her fight its effect, blinking too long, drooping into her phone, swiping slower and slower. Then she passed out with her plump mouth open and one full tit falling nearly out of her top.
I lift the blanket. I take it slow, because I want to see the moment her pussy comes into view covered by pale pink cotton. A wet spot dead center. My mouth waters.
“Dreaming about me already, sweet girl?” I murmur.
Ava twitches a little when I slip a hand under her shirt. And it’s like her body already knows me, likes me. Her nipple is hard before I even touch it. I roll it between my fingers and lower my head to suck.
I make a sound I don’t recognize. Somewhere between a groan and a growl.
Her tits are round and full and soft as fuck. I mouth them like they’re sacred. They bounce when I shift her, the tiniest gasp breaking free from her lips as my tongue circles. I’m slow and careful. This is fucking worship. A preparation. Her body needs to know me before her mind does.
She sighs in her sleep.
I kiss down her stomach.
One day she’ll beg for this. But tonight, I do it without her knowing. I pull down those drenched panties. Hold them to my nose. Inhale like I’ve earned it. I’ll keep them.
Her pussy glistens. She’s already wet, and I haven’t even touched her properly yet.
I hover.
One lick.
She moans in her sleep.
I go again, slower. Her thighs tense. Her hips lift just slightly. She doesn’t wake. I lap her like a fucking animal, dragging mytongue through her folds until I know her taste like my own name.
She whimpers, legs twitching.
I pause to whisper: “when you come, it’ll be in your sleep. Before you know my name.”
I bite the inside of her thigh. Not hard enough to bruise yet. But enough that her body remembers.
I leave her wet, used, and half-naked, her pussy slick and fucking perfect. My cock is hard enough to split concrete, but I don’t fuck her.
Not tonight.
Five
Ava
Okay, what the hell is going on with this apartment?
This morning, I woke up to fingerprints on the inside of my bedroom door.
Not smudges. Not vague shapes. Full-on, honest-to-God prints. Damp. Like someone had just touched it with wet hands.
I sleep alone. And I definitely didn’t lick my fingers and go smudging the door in the middle of the night.
I stood there staring at the door for a solid minute, holding my coffee like it could explain things. Then I cleaned them off, because what else was I going to do, call Scooby-Doo?
Maybe I’m sleepwalking. That’s a thing, right? New environments can trigger it? Maybe I got up, touched the door, and forgot?
Still.
It’s weird.
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