Page 105 of Pregnant Virgin of the Bratva
When I enter her, it’s slow. My cock aches for her, but the tension is so wonderful I find myself bucking into her, a moan muffled as I clamp my lips closed.
She gasps and clutches my shoulders, head tipping back as I fill her inch by inch.
She’s tight, hot, slick—her body welcoming mine like it’s never forgotten how we fit.
I still once I’m buried deep, breathing hard against her neck.
She strokes my jaw. “Kion…”
I meet her eyes.
“Don’t hold back,” she says.
Of course I don’t.
I move in her with purpose, finding the rhythm that makes her lose track of time, of sound, of everything but the two of us. Her moans turn into gasps, then into soft cries that break open something in me. I kiss her through all of it—her mouth, her cheek, her throat—until she’s clinging to me with everything she has, trembling around me.
Her hands grasp at my shoulders, nails dragging down my back in desperate little arcs. Her head tips back, lips parted around breathless moans that rise and fall with every thrust. I move deeper, harder, drawn by the way her body reacts—how she tightens around me, how she trembles under every stroke like she’s unraveling in my arms.
I press my mouth to her throat, to the spot just beneath her jaw where her pulse races against my lips. She whimpers when I kiss it, softer now, like she’s right on the edge again.
“You feel everything?” I murmur, voice low, ragged.
She nods, unable to speak. Her fingers thread through my hair, tugging gently.
I shift my weight, angling just enough to find that spot inside her that makes her gasp, arch, cling to me like she’s drowning. Her breath catches, her thighs tighten, and her whole body starts to shake again. I keep her right there, riding that edge, her moans getting louder, needier—until she falls apart with a cry I swear I’ll never forget.
She breaks beneath me, her whole body tensing, then pulsing with heat and pressure. Her legs lock around my hips as I thrust once, twice more, before I follow her over the edge—everything in me pouring into her in one long, shuddering groan.
The world stills.
I stay inside her, forehead resting against hers, both of us slick with sweat, breathless, hearts pounding.
I can’t help myself. I grin—slow and satisfied, voice rough in her ear. “That wassofucking hot.”
Epilogue - Esme
One Year Later
The garden is in full bloom.
Lavender spills over the edges of the stone path, brushing against my ankles as I walk barefoot across the grass. White roses climb the trellis in lazy arcs, their petals open and generous in the morning sun. Even the hydrangeas, which I once thought too delicate for this soil, have taken to the quiet countryside like they’ve always belonged here.
Everything has softened. Even us.
I stop just short of the old bench beneath the birch tree, shading my eyes against the light. Kion is already outside, sleeves rolled up, shirt untucked, barefoot like me. His hair is slightly damp from the shower, curling at the edges. He stands in the grass with our daughter perched on one strong arm, laughing as she clutches the air.
“Again!” she demands, pointing toward the sky with one chubby hand.
He tosses her up—only a little, just enough to make her squeal—and catches her without effort. She erupts into giggles, feet kicking, curls bouncing beneath the crooked tilt of her sunhat.
I lean against the wall near the kitchen door and just watch.
Kion doesn’t see me yet.
I want to see him like this—unguarded, smiling without calculation, his mouth soft, his posture loose. I want to soak in the sound of her laughter filling the garden, that full-bodied joy that only toddlers seem to have, the kind that rolls up from their bellies and shakes their whole bodies.
Liliana is one now. Strong-willed, sharp-eyed, and absolutely fearless.
