Page 33 of Pregnant Virgin of the Bratva
“I want you to come again,” he says.
“I—can’t—” I choke out.
“Yes, you can. You will.”
His fingers find my clit, circling it as he drives up into me again. My body goes tight. Too tight. I claw at his shoulders, at the sheets, at anything I can hold on to.
“I want you to come on my cock,” he growls. “I want to feel you squeeze around me. Come for me, Esme.”
The sound of my name in his voice pushes me over.
I shatter.
The orgasm rips through me, violent and hot, a burst of white that makes the room spin. I scream—loud, breathless, clenching around him as every nerve ignites.
He fucks me through it.
Every thrust drags the pleasure out longer, keeps my body trembling, twitching, crying out. He growls something low and broken, hips jerking as he slams in deep and spills inside me, his cock pulsing as he comes again.
I collapse against him, trembling.
Afterward, I lie still.
The room is quiet, dimly lit by the bedside lamp he never bothered to turn off. My body aches in places I didn’t know could ache. My legs are too heavy to move. My skin is slick with sweat and cooling fast, making me shiver beneath the thin sheet. I can still feel him inside me, my body stretched, used, full.
His cum is already sliding down the inside of my thigh.
I don’t know what to feel.
My throat is tight. Not from pain. From something else. My eyes sting, and for a moment I think I might cry… but the tears don’t come. They hover, waiting, uncertain. Like me.
He lies beside me, half propped on one elbow, his eyes still on me. Not soft. Not tender. Just watching, like he’s trying to read something he already suspects is there. His chest rises and falls slowly. His skin is warm. His scent—smoke and sweat and something faintly metallic—lingers around me like a second skin.
He reaches for a cloth without saying a word.
I flinch before I can stop myself. His movement is too calm, too deliberate, and I’m too raw. He notices. Of course he does. But he doesn’t comment. He dips the cloth in the bowl of water left on the nightstand, wrings it out, and returns to me.
His touch is methodical.
He wipes between my legs, cleaning away the mess he left behind. I gasp at the contact—too sensitive—but he doesn’t pause. He finishes what he started, then tosses the cloth aside and pulls the sheet higher over my hips.
I glance at him, and his face is unreadable.
Kion doesn’t offer comfort. Doesn’t ask how I feel. He doesn’t pretend this was anything other than what it was. When he catches me staring, he raises a brow, makes a show of dipping the cloth between my thighs.
Then, his hand finds my waist again.
He doesn’t pull me close. He just lets it rest there, warm and firm, like he’s reminding me without speaking that I’m still his. That I belong to him now, whether I want to or not.
Something stirs in me.
It has teeth. It coils low in my belly, tighter now that the sharpest edge of the night has dulled. It isn’t affection. It isn’teven comfort. It’s need, born from fear and heat and the way his eyes never left mine when he was inside me. The way he looked at me like I was his already, or like I would never belong anywhere else.
His hand still rests on my waist. Heavy. Anchoring. He hasn’t spoken since the last breath we dragged out of each other, but his presence is louder than words. He’s there, right there, and no part of me feels free of it.
I keep my eyes on the ceiling, but I feel him shift slightly beside me. His body is solid, warm, too close. He doesn’t wrap around me. He doesn’t pull me in like a lover might, but his fingers flex slightly against my skin, like he’s still reminding me where I am. Who I’m beside. What I’ve become.
Somehow, the reminder isn’t enough to drive me away.
