Page 18 of Captured By the Masked BRATVA
When her moans turn to whimpers, I begin to kiss my way up her body, paying extra attention to her glorious tits. She reaches for my cock, taking over from me with her stilted, disjointed strokes.
“Get onto all fours for me, Elena, I need to fill you as deep as possible,” I say. She releases me and does as I ask, lifting her gorgeous round ass into the air. I turn us so we are facing a mirror on the far side of the room. “That’s it, let me see you gorgeous tits when I fuck you from behind.”
She moans, at my words or how she feels when I swipe a finger over her entrance, I don’t know. I spread her juices around making sure she is wet enough to take me before I thrust into her in one smooth stroke.
She grunts and her face screws up briefly. She must still be sore from earlier and I make a mental note to take better care of her.
“If you need me to stop, say so now,” I manage through clenched teeth.
“No, Artem,” she pleads.
“Then tell me what you need.”
She gasps as I thrust into her again. “I need you to fill me full of your hot cum.”
I grin at her use of dirty talk. It’s unexpected, but I like it.
I set a punishing pace, every muscle in my body wound tight with the need to fuck her into next week. To fill her so full of my cum that it takes root and blooms in her womb. I watch her face in the mirror as her breathing increases, as pain gives way to desire, to pleasure. I drop my gaze to her tits, hanging from her frame and bouncing wildly in time with my thrusts.
“Don’t stop, Artem,” she says, reaching down to her clit. My balls lift and tighten and when her fluttering cunt tightens around me, I let go. I let go of everything. I come so hard my vision blurs, my thrusts grow erratic but still have enough force to move us across the bed. The arm she is supporting herself with collapses, her breasts squashing into the bed, her eyes areclosed, her mouth a soft ‘O’ as her orgasm shudders through her. I spurt rope after rope of cum into her, trying to brand her from the inside out.
Once my dick finishes twitching inside her, I pull out as gently as possible, helping her turn onto her back, and propping up her hips on a cushion.
Then I sink between her knees once more and drop soft kisses on her pretty cunt lips.
“What are you doing?” she asks, her voice hazy, sleep moving in to claim her.
“I’m making sure I stay inside you. Go to sleep, Elena. I’ll take care of you.”
I push what small drop of me tries to leak from her back into her channel and continue to gently lick and suck her lips before heading to the bathroom. I soak a wash cloth in a bowl epsom-salt infused water, fold it neatly and return to place it on her swollen pussy.
She shifts slightly as I climb beside her, resting a hand over the warm washcloth to keep it in place, removing it only once it has cooled.
Elena
It’s been a week since the masquerade, though it feels like much longer. The days have a strange rhythm now, mornings that start with Artem’s quiet voice and the scent of coffee, nights that end with his hands tracing slow patterns against my skin like he’s still trying to convince himself I’m real. We’re real.
The city outside the windows is different from the one I used to know. It hums and pulses, but up here, everything is still. The world hasn’t stopped turning, yet I can’t shake the sense that ours has shifted onto a new axis.
When the delivery arrives, I almost don’t open the door. The courier leaves a long wooden case in the hallway with my name scrawled in ink I recognise immediately as my father’s assistant’s hand.
The cello.
For a moment I just stand there, staring at it. My breath feels shallow. I’d forgotten how beautiful it was, the varnish catching the light like honey, the faint dents along its side that only I could see. I press my hand to the case, half-expecting it to burn.
Artem appears from the kitchen, shirt sleeves rolled, a faint line of concentration between his brows. He stops when he sees me. “What is it?”
I swallow. “It’s mine.”
He studies me for a moment, then crosses the room, eyes flicking over the case. “The cello.”
I nod. “My father must have sent it. Or maybe he wanted it gone.”
There’s something in his expression I can’t read, pride, maybe, or understanding. “Will you play it?”
“I don’t know if I can.”
He steps closer, his voice low and steady. “Then don’t playAdagio.Play something else. Something that’s ours.”
