Page 20 of Bought By the Masked BRATVA
"This pussy belongs to me now," I tell her, my hand wrapping around her wrists and pinning them above her head. I squeeze just enough to feel her pulse race. "No one else gets to touch you, Grace. You're mine to fuck, mine to protect, mine to keep. Say it,” I demand, sliding my other hand between us to put pressure on her clit, still fucking her hard enough that her glorious tits bounce against my chest.
“I’m yours,” she gasps between moans, and it pushes me over the edge. My balls tighten as I slam into her one last time, spilling deep inside. Her firm, fluttering walls milk every last drop from me as I watch her in awe and wonder while she comes apart around me.
Grace
The sheets are crisp, the air heavy with that same scent I’ve started to associate with him, something clean and dark. He leans against the headboard, the sheets barely covering him, sunlight catching the sharp edge of his jaw.
I lie beside him, the distance between us deliberate. It’s easier to think when he’s not touching me.
“You’re quiet,” he says after a moment.
“I’m thinking.” I don’t elaborate. I don’t tell him that my mind is not on my previous life and the way it fell apart, because all I can think about is how it feels to be here, with him. How I’ve never felt this heady connection to anyone before. That I’m worried it’s just great sex and adrenalin fuelling feelings that aren’t really there.
Because no one falls in love like this.
“That sounds dangerous.”
“Maybe.” I turn onto my side, watching him. “I’m just trying to understand what this is.”
He studies me for a long moment. “This?”
“Yes. You. Me. All of it.” I hesitate, searching for the right words. “I don’t know what comes next. What I’m supposed to be to you now.”
Something flickers in his eyes. Not surprise, but the careful calculation of a man weighing truths. “You’re mine.”
“That’s not an answer,” I say softly. “It’s a sentence.”
His mouth twitches, half amusement, half warning. “I don’t do uncertainty, Grace. I deal in outcomes.”
“Then tell me the outcome,” I press. “What happens when all this is over? When Hartley’s gone, when my name’s cleared?”
He exhales slowly. “By then, you won’t want to leave.”
I laugh quietly. “You sound awfully sure of yourself.”
“I am.”
The confidence in his tone should irritate me. Instead, it just tightens something low in my chest. “Iris said you don’t bring people here.”
His gaze sharpens. “Iris talks too much.”
“She meant it as a compliment,” I say, softer now. “That you’re… different here. Softer, maybe.”
He shakes his head slightly. “I’m not soft. I’m careful.”
“And yet you brought me home. A wanted criminal.”
Now he really laughs. “We’re all criminals here,milost.”
For a moment, silence. Then he says, “My father built this house. Everything in it. The land, the company, the name. He was Bratva. Through and through. Ruthless. Unforgiving. He taught me what power looks like.”
I listen, unsure if he’s ever said this aloud before.
“My mother,” he continues, his voice quieter, “is Irish Mafia. Her family dealt in information and blood oaths. She married him knowing she’d be crossing lines that couldn’t be uncrossed.”
“Did they love each other?” I ask.
A shadow passes over his expression. “Deeply. Unreservedly. In ways I never understood possible.”
