Page 21 of Bred By the Masked BRATVA
My breath catches. Something inside me shifts. This isn’t a performance anymore. This isn’t a predator playing a game. This is a man giving me the one thing no one else gets. The truth.
He crooks a finger at me, his voice a low growl. “Let me taste you, Natasha.”
My hands tremble as I let the sheet fall from my body. Cool air brushes my overheated skin. I crawl up his chest, palms skimming over the hard planes of muscle, feeling his heartbeatunder my fingers. His eyes track me the whole way, dark and steady, like a man watching a storm he’s been waiting for all his life.
By the time I reach his face I’m trembling, but not from fear. With want. With the sense that something irreversible is about to happen.
I straddle his shoulders, knees sinking into the mattress, the position indecent and powerful at once. His hands slide up to my hips but don’t guide me; they just rest there, heavy and waiting, like he’s offering me the choice.
For a heartbeat our eyes lock. No masks, no lies, nothing left but skin and breath.
Then I lower myself onto his mouth.
The first stroke of his tongue makes me gasp, my fingers curling in his hair as heat floods me. He groans into me, the sound vibrating against my sensitive skin, his hands tightening on my hips to steady me.
Every flick, every slow circle pulls me further out of my head and deeper into him. My hips start to move on their own, rocking against his mouth, chasing the rhythm he sets.
I’m the one on top, but it feels like he’s worshipping me. Like he’s writing a vow with his tongue, one slow stroke at a time.
My breath comes faster, thighs trembling as he drags me higher and higher. My breasts are swaying and my fingers find their way to my nipples, squeezing and plucking at the hard peaks, sending electric currents straight down to where his tongue is circling me reverently. All the noise about ethics, about stories, about what the world will think blurs into static until there’s nothing left but his mouth and my pussy and the terrifying, glorious thought:he’s crowning me.
“God…” I moan, my voice breaking. “I can’t—”
He answers by sucking harder, dragging his tongue over the spot that makes my vision white out. My hips roll, his hands slide around to the globes of my ass and squeeze, hard. I’m lost. Totally, helplessly lost.
When the climax hits, it rips through me like a storm, tearing a cry from my throat. I arch against him, trembling, maskless, bare, for the first time all night.
I collapse forward against the headboard, gasping, hair spilling around us. And somewhere beneath me, I hear him chuckle, dark and pleased, like a king who’s just watched his queen take her throne.
Ivor
She’s trembling above me, hair wild, lips parted, thighs slick against my face. Her body still quakes from the release I tore out of her, but she kept riding me like a queen drunk on her own power. And God, the sound of my name breaking from her throat, that was the moment she crossed the line forever.
I grip her hips tighter, drag her down hard against my face one last time, licking and sucking her until she sobs and shudders, then I ease her back. She collapses against my chest, panting, dazed. Mine.
I run a hand through her tangled hair, the other sliding down to grip her ass. My cock throbs with the need to be inside her again, but this time I want it different. I want her on top. I want her to come into her own power, literally.
“Natasha,” I rasp, tugging her head back so her eyes meet mine. “Your throne is waiting.”
Her eyes flicker wide, confused, until I shift her down my body, guiding her hips until she straddles me. My cock presses thick and heavy against her slick entrance. The heat of her makes my vision blur.
She shakes her head, breathless. “I—”
I catch her jaw in my hand, my thumb pressed against her lips. “No more running. You wanted truth? This is it. You ride me now. You take me inside you and claim what’s yours.”
Her thighs tremble against mine. Her breath hitches. Then, with a broken little sound, she lowers herself onto me.
The stretch is brutally slow and tight., perfect. My head tips back, a growl ripping from my throat as her heat clamps around me, squeezing every inch. “Fuck…”
She gasps, nails digging into my chest as she sinks down, inch by inch, until I’m buried to the hilt. Her head tips back, her hair falling loose, and the sight of her like this, flushed, trembling, impaled on me, makes my chest ache and my balls tighten.
“Look at you,” I groan. “Sitting on me like a queen. My queen.”
Her hips roll, tentative at first, then harder, hungrier, chasing the rhythm her body already knows. Every grind makes me hiss, every clench of her walls pulls me closer to losing myself.
“Yes,” I snarl, gripping her hips, forcing her to move faster, harder. “Ride me. Show me you’re mine. Show me the world doesn’t own you anymore.”
She moans, louder now, riding me with abandon, her thighs slapping against mine. Her eyes are wild, her glorious tits bouncing, and she looks like she’s been remade. She is no longer a reporter, nor a spy, but exactly what I told her she was.
