Page 12 of Bought By the Masked BRATVA
He captures my mouth again, the kiss deeper now, more insistent, but still controlled, like he's drawing out every moment. His fingers finally find my center, slipping through my wetness with exquisite care, circling my clit in soft, deliberate motions that make stars burst behind my eyelids.
I moan into his kiss, my body rocking against his hand, chasing the building pleasure that's coiling tighter and tighter in my core.
He shifts over me, his weight a comforting anchor, and I guide him to my entrance, our eyes locking as he pushes in inch by inch, filling me so completely that I forget to breathe. He pauses when he's fully seated, giving me time to adjust, his forehead resting against mine, our breaths mingling in the space between us.
Then he starts to move. Slow thrusts that drag out the sensation, each one hitting deeper, more intimately. I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him closer, my nails grazing his back as the friction builds, wave after wave of bliss washing over me. His hand finds mine, intertwining our fingers above my head, holding me there as he rocks into me, the rhythm steady, unyielding, until the world narrows to just this, just us.
The pressure mounts, a sweet ache that has me whispering his name, begging for release without words. He quickens just a fraction, his free hand slipping between us to rub my clit in time with his thrusts, and it's enough to tip me over. I come apart beneath him, my body clenching around him in pulsing waves, pleasure flooding every nerve.
He follows moments later, his movements stuttering as he buries himself deep, groaning my name like a prayer, his release spilling warm inside me. We stay locked like that, riding out the afterglow, his body collapsing gently onto mine, and in that quiet aftermath, I feel something shift, a deeper connection forging in the silence.
Liam
Her breathing evens out, soft against the quiet of the suite. The moonlight cuts through the glass, painting her in calm where before there was chaos and desperation.
I should feel satisfied. I should be thinking about what comes next. The logistics of protection, the inevitable fallout, the information she carries that could shift entire markets if I use it correctly.
But none of that sticks.
All I can think about is her.
The way she looked when the mask came off, fierce and fragile all at once. The way she touched me like she was testing the edges of her own destruction and decided to fall anyway.
And the way I followed.
I drag myself out of the bed carefully, the air cooling the heat still lingering on my skin. The city sprawls beneath us, restless, alive.
I sit at the desk, open my laptop, and start piecing together the fragments I already know. Her name. The dossier. The scandal that erupted four days ago now. I’ve seen her on the news. The perfect scapegoat for a man with too much to lose.
Edward Hartley.
I type the name, and the screen floods with headlines:Senator distances himself from former consultant amid allegations of arms trafficking.
Then another:Grace Casey suspected of leaking classified material.Alongside a smaller praising Hartley’s as a family man committed to making things right.
I scroll through the reports, cross-referencing them with shipping records and whispers I’ve heard from my own contacts. It doesn’t take long before the pieces fall into place.
Hartley’s accounts, Kozlov’s shipments, the missing crates that no one was supposed to notice.
She wasn’t part of it. She was the cover.
I sit back, the realization settling heavy in my chest.
She’s not the traitor. She’s the evidence.
I close the laptop and glance back at her. She’s shifted in her sleep, one arm draped over the sheet, her face half-buried in the pillow. There’s a faint crease between her brows, like she’s still fighting something even in her dreams.
I move to the bed and sit beside her, my fingers brushing a strand of pale hair from her face. She has bleached it recently. It feels dry and rough and I can see where patches of her natural colour still remain. She rushed it. Likely did it herself in a bid to hide from the press.
She stirs, eyelashes fluttering, and for a moment I think she’s going to wake fully. But then her eyes open just enough to find me.
“Couldn’t sleep?” she murmurs, voice rough with exhaustion.
“Didn’t try.”
She hums quietly, the sound fragile and human. “Were you working?”
“Sort of. I was researching you.”
