Page 5 of Watched and Bred By the Bratva
I go from siren to silly in seconds. Laughter bursts out until my eyes water. Yeah, right, I mutter. “He’d probably button my shirt back up and give me fatherly advice about not catching a cold.”
Still… my body thrums, my panties dampen. It’s been a long day. I need a meal, shower, and bed.
When I’ve hit all three goals, I pad into the bedroom. My towel clings to me before I pat myself dry and drop it to the floor. Pajamas can wait. Practice can’t.
“Practice, practice, practice,” I mutter, stretching out on the bed.
My fingertips trail from my knees up to my hips, skirting the heat pooling between my thighs. “Too fast,” I tell the empty room. “Why don’t you taste these delicious fruits first?”
My hands rise to my breasts—cupping, squeezing, pinching. “That’s it, Nikolai,” I whisper, testing the name in my mouth, letting it roll like a lover’s name. “Harder.” I imagine his fingers taking over, thick and blunt, tugging until the pleasure sharpens and twists.
I pinch again, rougher. The jolt makes my back arch. My body wants. Craves. But still—still—it’s all pretend.
“Here,” I murmur to him, to the man who isn’t here, “come take me apart.”
In my mind, he kneels between my thighs like it’s sacred ground, not something casual or easy. His mouth moves over my skin—chasing goosebumps, tasting sweat and heat. I imagine him murmuring something low and Russian, reverent and dirty all at once.
His features rise like heat off pavement—soft, thick, dark wavy hair that begs to be touched. Hazel eyes that shimmer with something magnetic. A body sculpted like he was built, not born. And that small scar on his chin, just off-center, like an imperfection made to make him more perfect.
I imagine tangling my fingers in that hair, both hands buried to the wrist, and holding him still. “Let me teach you,” I whisper aloud. “Let me show you what I like.”
He groans into my skin. His tongue moves with lazy purpose, flattening, curling, teasing. “Yes, Nikolai. Yes. You’re such a good student.”
I spread wider, guiding his imagined mouth. The wet heat of it almost real, almost enough. “Not too soft—faster—slow—yes…”
My fingers mimic him—circling, pressing, teasing. I try a faster rhythm, then slower. One hand between my legs, the other pinching a nipple. The buildup is there—but it’s like chasing a figure only to capture a ghost.
His mouth reaches the top of my thighs. “Your tongue feels so good. Heavenly.” I picture his face kissing through the soft curls decorating me. “Shave? Maybe… but only if you make it worth it. Because razor bumps are hell.”
The thought breaks the spell for a moment, and I roll my eyes at myself. Focus. Relatable or not, it’s not sexy.
Then again, maybe it is. If he wants all of me, he gets the real me—concerns, awkward humor and all. If he wants to taste me, he better earn it.
I go back to the fantasy. My thighs tremble. I twist against the sheets. I want to fall apart, to fly over that edge and—
Nothing.
The heat stays in my belly, thighs, chest—but it doesn’t crest. Doesn’t crash. I grow still. My fingers fall away. My chest heaves like I’ve run a race with no finish line. Disappointment stings my eyes, and I throw my arm over them as if I can hide.
“Doc,” I whisper to the ceiling. “I lied. I’ve never had an orgasm. Am I still normal? A late bloomer? Or am I broken because fingers don’t do it for me?”
Sighing, I sit up and grab my nightie. My fertility tracker app blinks at me from the phone.
Two weeks to ovulation. Two weeks until my dream comes true.
Nikolai is, of course, the first customer of my shift. It feels like he waited in his car until I arrived. I’m barely in my apron before he waves me over from his corner booth.
“Hi,” I whisper, my voice cracking. “Your usual today?”
He watches me with a heat that’s probably my imagination conspiring with last night’s fantasy. “Yes. Black. No sugar.”
His eyes follow the sweep of my tongue over my lip before lifting back to mine. My hands shake as I pour his coffee, and hot liquid splashes onto his cuff.
“Oh my God—” I grab napkins, one, two, ten, trying to blot it up until his fingers wrap around mine, stilling me.
“Zara. It’s fine. Are you?”
“Yes, yes, I just… you don’t need any—we have ointment, a lot of ointment,” I stammer, still dabbing until I force my hands back. My skin tingles where he touched me.
