Page 32 of Pregnant Virgin of the Bratva
I try to catch my breath.
He watches me.
Kion’s gaze never softens. It doesn’t drift, doesn’t falter. He watches like I’m the answer to something he didn’t know he was asking. That look should terrify me. It should make me feel like prey. Instead, it makes something low in my belly twist tight.
“You’re not done,” he says.
The words settle in my throat. I swallow.
His voice is steady, without breathlessness. He could’ve been lying still for hours, but I know better. His eyes are darker now, dilated and hungry, hooded with satisfaction but no hint of fatigue.
He moves beneath me, rolling onto his back. One arm hooks around my waist, dragging me with him.
I let out a soft noise, caught off guard, but he’s already positioning me.
He settles back into the pillows and looks up at me. “I like my women on top,” he jokes. “I’m a man of many tastes.”
The robe slips from my shoulders as I shift, knees bracketing his hips, thighs still trembling. I hesitate. My body aches, every nerve raw from the first time, but heat flares again at his command. His cock is hard again, thick and ready between us.
“I’ve never—” I start, unsure, but he cuts me off with a low sound, almost a growl.
“I’ll guide you, sweetheart.”
I reach between us, wrap one hand around his length, and line him up again. My breath catches as I sink down, slow and aching. I’m sore. Too sore, but I want it anyway. The stretch this time is deeper, sharper, made worse by the angle and the pressure of him watching me.
He groans beneath me, hands sliding up to grip my hips. “Take it slow.”
I do.
My thighs tremble with the effort, muscles straining as I sink onto him, inch by inch. I feel him fill me again, stretch me until I gasp and have to brace my hands against his chest. My head drops forward. Sweat beads along my hairline.
“Look at me,” he says.
I lift my chin. His hands slide up to my waist, firm and controlling. He guides my movements at first, rolling his hips upward as I grind down, setting the rhythm with every press of his hands. He watches each flicker of pain or pleasure in my face, memorizing the shift in my breathing, the tightening of my jaw, the way my lips part around quiet moans I can’t swallow back.
“You’re so tight like this,” he murmurs. “So fucking good for me.”
I try to speak, to curse him, to tell him to stop talking—but I can’t find the words. My hips rock forward again, and this time, I feel the pressure shift, the angle hit something that makes my body jolt.
I cry out.
“There,” he says, smug now. “Do that again.”
I move faster, riding him with more confidence, chasing that flash of pleasure with each grind of my hips. The soreness fades beneath the hunger. I lean forward, planting one hand on the headboard behind him. His hands slide up my sides, cupping my breasts, thumbs flicking over my nipples until I’m panting.
“You look so fucking good like this,” he groans. “Split open and dripping on my cock.”
My cheeks flush. My rhythm stutters. I press harder against him, chasing the wave I can feel building low and tight in my belly. His hands return to my hips, tightening.
Then he thrusts up hard.
I scream—sharp and ragged—and nearly collapse.
He catches me, arm locking behind my back. “You like that?”
I nod, barely coherent.
He takes control again, fucking up into me from below, guiding my body with both hands now. Every thrust hits deeper.I can’t breathe. I can’t think. My body is on fire, my skin slick, hair clinging to my face. He bites down on my throat, not hard enough to feel it, but enough to leave a mark.
