Page 8 of Captured By the Masked BRATVA
“That’s never happened to me before,” she says, and it’s enough to undo me completely.
I line myself up with her slick entrance and push. Her eyes shoot to mine and widen in a moment of panic.
“Relax, let me take you like you asked.”
Her hands come to my shoulders and I push into her warm heat. Her face folds into a frown as she takes every inch of me, then she lets out a strangled gasp as I bottom out. I hold there for a moment to let her get used to the stretch as I clench my teeth and focus on not blowing my load like I’ve never done this before.
But I haven’t. I’ve never fucked someone who was fine with dying, but begged not to die untouched.
The rest blurs, the world narrowing to breath and heat and the sound of her saying my name like it’s a secret she’s been keeping too long. I take her in the only way I know how: fiercely, reverently, as if claiming her might finally let me rest.
When the noise in my head finally stops, it’s because of her.
Elena
I’ve never felt anything like it. The hot, slow stretch as he fills me. The way our body crush together when he’s fully inside me.
It hurts, but in a way that tells me I’m still alive and that’s okay.
When he begins to thrust in and out of me at a pace that is to punish us both, there’s a moment of blind panic that I can’t handle the pain, the stretch, the heat. That I’ll burn beneath him and he’ll burn with me. Then his mouth finds my nipple and my brain short circuits. The pain changes from hot and sharp to warm with a current of something else in it’s place.
He moves to a slightly different angle and slides his hand between us, pressing against my mound, a finger finding my clit and the world tilts as pleasure shoots through me again.
My body wracks with release as it pulses through me. I don’t realise I’m screaming his name until the blood stops pounding in my ears and when my vision clears enough to look at him he is barely holding on to his own restraint.
“Artem,” I gasp, “please come, I can’t—” I don’t need to finish, to tell him I can’t handle any more. He throws his head back and comes. Each thrust into me now punctuated with a gutteral groan as he empties himself inside me.
When he looks at me again, his face is unrecognizably soft. He blinks a couple of times, taking me in. My legs are locked aroundhis waist, his cock is still twitching inside me, and this is the moment I know we’ve crossed a line we can’t uncross.
The world feels weightless for a moment after he moves away. The bed shifts under his weight as he rolls onto his back, arm flung over his face like he can’t bear the light. The room smells like us, heat, sex, something new and dizzying. My pulse is still racing, but the silence that follows is louder than any sound.
I stare at the ceiling, trying to breathe through the knot in my chest. I should say something. Anything. But the words don’t come.
“What happens now?” The question slips out before I can stop it, small and almost childlike.
Artem turns his head toward me. His eyes are softer than I’ve seen them, but there’s no answer waiting there. Only the same bewildered awareness I feel.
“I’m not sure,” he says finally, voice low, rough with exhaustion. “I’ve never—” He stops, sighs. “I don’t know what to do with this.”
I swallow, nodding even though he isn’t looking at me anymore. “Me either.”
The truth is, I don’t know how any of this is supposed to work. I’ve never done this before, never been with anyone, never woken up next to someone whose touch still echoes in my skin. I think I should feel ashamed, but I can’t seem to make myself feel that way knowing I won’t be alive much longer to feel that way.
He drags a hand through his hair and sits up, shoulders tense, the sheet sliding down his body. For a second I think he’s going to leave, but he doesn’t. He just sits there, breathing, the silence stretching until it feels like the walls might crack under it.
I reach out, trace a line down his spine before I can think better of it. “It’s okay,” I whisper.
His breath catches. “Nothing is okay,” he says, but it sounds like he’s trying to convince himself.
He stays there, spine taut under my fingertips, every muscle drawn tight like he’s waiting for a verdict.
I push myself up onto one elbow, watching the shape of him in the half-light. He looks carved out of everything I’ve ever wanted and never dared to touch, broad shoulders, the line of his jaw, the small tremor in his hand where it rests on his knee. He’s usually all control, deliberate and contained. Now he looks lost.
I touch him again, just the curve of his shoulder. “You can talk to me,” I say quietly. “You don’t have to pretend you know what this is. It doesn’t have to mean anything.”
He huffs a soft breath, a sound that could almost be a laugh if there wasn’t so much weight in it. “I’m not pretending. I really don’t know.”
He turns his head just enough for me to see his eyes. They’re clearer now, stripped of everything that used to hide behind them. “It’s been a long time since I felt… anything that wasn’t anger.”
