Page 30 of Pregnant Virgin of the Bratva
He doesn’t speak at first. Kion sets the glass down, careful and deliberate. Then he rises. One smooth motion.
He moves toward me, slow but without hesitation. His gaze never leaves mine. I want to step back, but my feet won’t move. Something keeps me rooted there—fear, defiance, curiosity. Maybe all of them.
When he stops in front of me, I tilt my chin up before I realize I’ve done it.
His hand lifts. He touches my face, not a full caress, just the edge of his fingers tracing my jaw, sliding down to the hollow of my throat. It’s not rough, not possessive like before. It’s worse than that. It’s gentle.
My breath catches.
The robe isn’t enough. He knows that.
His thumb presses lightly against the side of my neck, just enough to feel my pulse jump beneath it. I’m shaking, just a little, and I know he feels that too.
Then he kisses me.
There’s nothing soft about it. His mouth crushes mine with heat and hunger, his hand tangling in the damp ends of my hair. I gasp, and he swallows the sound, lips parting mine with force. His tongue pushes in, claiming, tasting, dragging a shudder from my chest that I cannot hide.
His other hand finds the knot at my waist. The robe loosens. My body stiffens, but I don’t stop him. I can’t.
His palm slides beneath the silk, rougher than I expect, splaying wide over my bare hip. His fingers press in, dragging along the curve of me, tracing the heat beneath my skin. I’m breathing too fast. I feel him hard against my stomach, feel the heat roll off him in waves.
“Still so quiet, Esme. I like it. When you’re moaning my name, it will sound so much better.”
His hand moves lower. I tremble.
The kiss leaves me breathless.
His mouth covers mine like he owns the air in my lungs, like he has the right to take whatever he wants. His tongue moves with slow pressure, tasting, claiming. There’s no softness, no patience—only heat and demand and the way his hand keeps moving beneath the robe, sliding over my bare skin like he already knows every part of me.
I’ve never been touched like this.
Never been touched, really. At least not in any way that mattered, not like this. Not by someone who knows exactly what he’s doing, who watches every flinch like it’s a map, who uses each breath against me like a weapon.
His hand cups the back of my thigh and lifts.
The robe parts easily, falling open across my hips. I’m naked beneath it. I feel the rush of air between us, and then the heat of his body pressing forward.
He walks me backward with purpose.
Each step pushes me toward the bed behind us, one hand still on my jaw, the other gripping my waist. My knees hit the edge of the mattress, and he doesn’t stop—he leans in until I fall back, breathless, the robe pooling around me like torn petals.
His gaze drags over me slowly. His pupils are dark, dilated. His jaw tight. I don’t look away.
He shrugs off his jacket, pulls open the collar of his shirt. His movements are controlled but fast. I hear the sharp sound of a belt unbuckling, the slick slide of fabric pulled loose, then he’s crawling up onto the bed above me.
“You’re mine now,” he says.
The words make something inside me twist, hot and sharp.
His hand wraps around my ankle and pulls it outward. He moves between my legs, settling there, his body hot and heavy against mine. His mouth finds the curve of my collarbone and bites, not hard enough to bruise but hard enough to make me gasp.
Then lower.
He kisses the underside of my breast, then sucks a nipple into his mouth without warning, tongue circling the tight peak until my hips jerk beneath him. His hand slides down to grip my thigh and spread me wider. I try to close my legs, but it’s too late—he already has me open.
His fingers slide between my folds, and I arch under him with a groan.
He groans low, pleased, like he’s just confirmed something. “Wet already.”
