Page 22 of The Bratva's Sextuplets
“My turn,” she says, rolling us over with surprising strength until she’s straddling my hips.
She takes her time exploring me the way I explored her, mapping every inch of my chest, pausing to focus on my tattoos for several moments, before moving down to my abdomen. She uses her mouth and hands, always moving and keeping me stimulated.
When she moves lower and takes my cock between her lips, the sight of it disappearing into her mouth, followed by the moist, heated sensation of her tightening her cheeks around my length, is almost overwhelming. She works me with the same focused attention I gave her, learning my responses and using that knowledge to drive me to the edge of sanity.
“Zita, you need to stop,” I warn when she brings me dangerously close to losing control by flicking her tongue along the V on the underside of my cockhead.
“Okay. Don’t come yet.” She releases me and moves back up to position herself above me. “I want to feel you inside me when you do.”
She grasps the base of my cock and lowers her pussy onto me slowly, taking me inch by inch while we both adjust to the intensity of being joined. The sensation is incredible, but what affects me more is the way she watches my face as though she’s noting every reaction and storing it away for future reference.
“You feel perfect.” I grip her hips as she begins to move.
“So do you.” She sets a rhythm that’s designed to drive us both crazy, alternating between slow, deep movements and quick, shallow ones that make us both gasp.
When I can’t take the controlled pace anymore, I roll us over and pin her beneath me, driving into her with increasing urgency. She meets every thrust with equal force, wrapping her legs around my waist and demanding more intensity with her movements and her voice.
“Harder,” she says against my ear. “Fuck me like you mean it.”
I give her exactly what she’s asking for, and she responds with passionate engagement that makes this feel like mutual claiming rather than one-sided possession. When her release builds, I feel it in the way her body tightens around me as her breathing becomes ragged and desperate.
“Let go.” I reach between us to touch her where we’re joined. “I want to watch you fall apart.”
She does exactly that, coming with my name on her lips and her inner walls clenching around my cock in waves that trigger my own release. I bury my shaft deeply inside her wet heat and come with a hoarse cry while she holds me against her with arms that tremble from the intensity of what we’ve shared.
In the aftermath, we lie tangled together without speaking, both of us processing what just happened between us. The physical connection was intense enough to surprise us both, but more than that, it felt genuine in ways our previous interactions haven’t managed.
“Wow.”
“Wow, indeed,” I say while appreciating how she fits against my side as if she belongs there.
“It wasn’t like I expected.” She puts her hand over my left pec, partially covering thebratvastar on that side. “I thought it would feel like surrender or conquest. Instead, it felt like…”
“Partnership,” I finish when she struggles.
“Partnership,” she repeats, and there’s something almost like wonder in her voice.
We lie in comfortable silence while our breathing returns to normal and our heart rates slow to something approaching calm. “What happens now?” she asks eventually.
“We should figure out how to build something real from circumstances that started artificially.” I press a kiss to her temple, and she doesn’t pull away from the affectionate gesture. “I hope our partnership can grow into something that benefits both of us instead of just serving our families’ interests.”
She sounds uncertain when she asks, “What if it can’t? What’ll we do if we discover we’re too different or too damaged by this arrangement to create anything genuine?”
I hesitate. “I suppose we’ll have to find ways to make the best of what we have.” I pull the sheet over both of us, creating a cocoon of warmth and temporary privacy. “After tonight, I think we might surprise ourselves with what we’re capable of building together though.”
“I hope you’re right,” she says with cautious hope.
As I drift toward sleep with my new wife in my arms, the battle between us hasn’t ended. It’s evolved into something more complex and potentially more rewarding. If we can make it work, we could have a partnership where both sides can win instead of one having to surrender to the other.
9
Zita
Two days after my wedding, and the night we spent in the hotel room, I sleep for the first time in his bed and wake up in a house that doesn’t belong to me, married to a man I barely know, and expected to live a life I never chose.
The Belsky mansion sprawls across two acres in Lincoln Park like something from a Russian fairy tale, all Gothic turrets and elaborate stonework that speaks of old money and older power. My new bedroom—our bedroom, I remind myself with a twist in my stomach—faces east, so morning sunlight streams through leaded glass windows to illuminate grand furniture.
Everything in this room is beautiful, expensive, and completely foreign to me. The bed is a massive four-poster carved from dark wood that Tigran tells me came from his grandfather’s estate in Moscow. Persian rugs cover polished hardwood floors, and oil paintings in heavy gold frames depict Russian landscapes I’ll probably never see. Even the air smells different here, like old wood and lemon polish.
