Page 8 of Marked & Bred By the Bratva
I’m a fucking voyeur. A shadow. A jealous wreck of a man watching his girl dance in some fucking college bar while frat boys circle her like vultures.
She laughs. Hair wild. Lips red. She throws her head back and grinds her hips.
And I nearly snap a pool cue in half. Standing in the shadows.Watching. Always fucking watching.
But she rejects every one of them.
Some try. One touches her arm. She pulls away. Another leans in too close. She shakes her head. Her friend grabs her, laughing, and they disappear into the crowd.
Thank fuck.
* * *
I follow her home in the Uber she shares with her friends.
She waves goodbye. Skips up the steps. Fumbles with the lock of her door.
She has no idea I’m already inside.
Waiting.
Watching.
Hard as fuck.
* * *
I’m in her closet when she walks in.
She hums some stupid pop song under her breath as she kicks off her shoes and starts peeling off that little skirt, sliding the zipper down.
I want to eat her whole.
She tosses her bra on the floor.
A gift.
She stretches in front of the mirror, arms up, tits high and bouncing slightly with each sway of her hips. “You see me, ghosts?” she jokes, giggling. “Come and get it, pervs.”
My cock twitches. Challenge fucking accepted.
She drops into bed like a girl who thinks she’s safe.
She is. Because she’s mine.
But she doesn’t know that yet.
* * *
I wait.
Long enough for her breathing to even out. Long enough to hear the little sigh she makes when she hits deep sleep.
Then I step out.
The floor creaks once. She doesn’t stir.
I peel the blanket back slowly, exposing the soft brown curve of her hips, the line of her spine, the backs of her knees. She’s sleeping on her stomach, lips parted, arms curled under her.
