Page 64 of Pregnant Virgin of the Bratva
I tug gently at his waistband. “Come here.”
He cups my jaw like he’s still afraid I’ll vanish. His thumb brushes across my cheek, then down to my lips. There’s no command in the gesture, no demand. Only reverence.
I pull him down to kiss me again, slower this time, deeper. My fingers find the back of his neck, the edge of his hair. I sink into him, tasting ash and heat and something that might be longing.
He lifts me easily, almost smug, and sets me on the bed like I’m a prize he’s won in front of the whole world. His mouth curves into a small, dangerous smile. “I could get used to this,” he murmurs, almost to himself.
His body settles over mine, weight braced on his forearms so he never crushes me, never presses too hard. His mouth trails kisses down my throat, across my collarbone, pausing at the pulse point that thunders against his lips.
“I won’t hurt you,” he whispers.
“I know.”
His hands are careful as he undoes the ties of my robe. The silk parts, sliding open. He doesn’t rush. His palms glide over my skin with a slowness that makes me ache. He kisses the curve of my breast, the soft rise of my stomach, each motion slow and deliberate.
I tangle my fingers in his hair and arch beneath him, wanting more, but still feeling the ghost of fear. He senses it—pulls back just enough to look me in the eye.
“We don’t have to,” he says.
“I want to.”
He smiles once, then bends to kiss me again.
This time when he touches me, it’s with all the fire he’s always carried—but none of the destruction. He trails his handdown my side, over the dip of my waist, past my hip. His fingers slip between my thighs, and I open for him with a soft gasp.
He strokes me slowly, circling with care, teasing gently until my breath hitches. When he finally slides two fingers inside me, I moan against his neck. My body clenches around him, aching and soft, slick and ready.
“I need you,” I whisper.
“Good, I love it when you’re needy.”
He moves above me again, removing his pants without breaking contact. When he enters me, it’s slow. Every inch of him stretching me open, filling me. His head falls forward, breath ragged.
“You feel—” He can’t finish.
Neither can I.
We move together slowly, the tension melting into heat. His thrusts are deep, unhurried. He watches me the whole time, his eyes locked on my face like it’s the only truth he knows.
I wrap my legs around his waist and pull him deeper. His hands slide under my back, cradling me. My nails dig into his shoulder, my lips parting with every breathless moan.
He whispers my name like a prayer.
When I start to tremble, he slows, grinding against me in perfect rhythm. The pleasure builds slow, aching. It curls low in my belly, then floods through me in a hot, blinding wave.
I cry out, body pulsing around him as the orgasm rips through me.
He shudders, grips my hips tighter, and follows me over the edge with a raw groan.
When he collapses beside me, I turn to him. Something has changed. “Didn’t think I had it in me, did you?” he asks lightly, but there’s something soft in his gaze.
He brushes the hair from my face and kisses my temple. No words. Just presence.
I rest my head against his chest.
We lie there in silence, his heartbeat steady beneath my cheek. The sheets are warm, twisted around our legs, and the firelight flickers gently across the walls. His hand strokes slowly up and down my spine, not possessive; just there, anchoring me.
I close my eyes for a moment, letting myself breathe. “I didn’t think I’d feel like this,” I murmur.
