Page 14 of Bred By the Masked BRATVA
I can’t breathe. Or maybe I’m breathing too much, every gasp shallow and jagged, filling me with fire instead of air. My body feels strung tight as a wire, every nerve lit.
He knows it. He’s mapping it with his tongue, his mouth mercilessly exact, dragging me up higher and higher. Every time I think I’m about to tip, he eases, changes pace, makes me cry out in frustration, then returns harder, deeper, until I’m breaking again.
I try to cling to thought, to reason. I try to remember why I’m here, what this is supposed to be. But every attempt dissolves the moment his tongue circles me just right, the moment his teeth graze me, the moment his voice rumbles low against me.
“Stop fighting it, little dove.” His words vibrate through me, hot and unbearable. “Give me what I want.”
A sob bursts out of me, desperate, helpless. My nails dig into the sheets. My hips buck, seeking more, demanding it even when my mind screams not to.
He pins me down effortlessly, his hands gripping my thighs, holding me open for him. And then he stops playing.
His tongue moves with ruthless precision, stroking exactly where I need it, over and over, relentless. His lips seal around me, sucking hard, sending lightning through every nerve.
I break.
The climax rips through me so violently I arch off the bed, a cry tearing out of my throat. White light floods behind my eyes, everything blurs, and all I can feel is the devastating rhythm of his mouth dragging every ounce of release from me.
It doesn’t stop there. He keeps going, swallowing every tremor, every aftershock, until I’m shaking, until my thighs quiver and I can’t push him away even if I wanted to.
When he finally lifts his head, his mouth glistens, his mask still gleaming above the wicked curve of his smile. His voice is low and rough.
“There,” he says, dragging his thumb over my trembling hip. “Now you understand.”
I’m panting, undone, sprawled against bed like I’ve been wrecked and remade.
Understand what? That he owns me? That he’s right? That I can’t walk away from this?
Maybe. Maybe all of it.
All I know is that my body doesn’t feel like it belongs to me anymore. It feels like his.
And he hasn’t even begun.
Ivor
She’s sprawled on my bed, mask still on, dress pooled around her waist, trembling from what I’ve already done to her with my mouth. Her skin is flushed, eyes glassy, lips parted like she’s drunk on me.
I stand at the edge of the bed, stripping off the last of my shirt, my slacks, never taking my eyes off her. She’s everything I’ve ever hated and everything I’ve ever wanted in one impossible, infuriating package: a woman who came to my world hunting a story and instead walked straight into my hands.
And now I’m done playing.
I’ve taken women before. Too many to count. I’ve owned them, used them, discarded them. It was never about them. It was about release, about proving something to my father, about shutting off the noise in my own head for a few minutes.
But with her, none of that applies. My hunger isn’t a thing to be silenced. It’s a fire that only she can stoke. I want to fill her, mark her, breed her, until there’s nothing left in her body or mind that isn’t mine.
I climb onto the bed, looming over her, straddling her, catching her wrists and pinning them above her head against the pillows. Her eyes flare behind the lace, but she doesn’t look away. She arches up instead, pressing her body to mine in a move that feels like surrender and challenge all at once.
“Mine,” I growl, my mouth at her throat, biting down hard enough to make her gasp. “Every part of you. Every thought. Every breath.”
She shudders, a soft sound escaping her lips. I stroke my hands down her sides, searching for a zip and when I find it, I slowly drag it downwards. Pulling her into a sitting position, I yank the dress up over her head.
She is naked but for the mask, and the sight of her flushed and perfect snaps the last thread of my restraint.
I shift, pushing her legs apart with my knee, lining myself against her. The head of my cock nudges at her slick, aching entrance. The heat of her makes my vision blur. She’s wet from my tongue, from her own want, and the knowledge of it drives me insane.
“Tell me to stop,” I rasp, even though I already know she won’t.
Her hips lift instead, her breath a tremor. “I can’t.”
