Page 112 of Bratva Bidder
The hallway creaks under my bare feet. I don’t bother putting on a robe. My tank top is thin, my shorts even thinner, and a selfish part of me hopes he’s still awake. That he’s just as haunted. That he’s not resting easy while I unravel alone.
His door is cracked. I push it open quietly.
He’s inside, sitting on the edge of the bed in just his sweatpants, elbows braced on his knees, head in his hands. The bedside lamp is still on, casting a soft gold glow over his shoulders.
He looks up when I step in, and his expression shifts the moment he sees me—surprise, confusion, then something softer, darker.
“Nadya,” he murmurs, voice low and rough. “What are you doing?”
I don’t answer.
I step closer, one breath at a time, until I’m between his legs. I climb onto him slowly—one knee on either side of his thighs—and straddle him without breaking eye contact.
His hands find my waist instinctively, fingers tightening like he’s not sure whether to pull me closer or hold me still.
I lean in, my hands sliding up his chest, palms splayed over the warm, solid heat of him. “Don’t talk,” I whisper. “Just let me feel something that isn’t fear.”
His eyes search mine, still heavy with the day, with everything we didn’t fix. But he doesn’t stop me.
And when I kiss him—slow, deep, needy—he kisses me back like it’s the only thing keeping us both from breaking. His grip tightens. My hips shift forward, finding the solid length of him already rising beneath me.
Neither of us pretends this is about comfort.
It’s about control. Desperation. Claiming something when the rest of the world feels like it’s slipping through our fingers.
He growls against my mouth, hands sliding under my shirt, dragging the thin fabric up and over my head, baring my skin to his heat. His grip on my waist tightens, but he doesn’t take control. He lets me lead, lets me move against him.
I roll my hips over him, slow and teasing, grinding down against the hard length already straining beneath his sweatpants. My nipples tighten under the thin cotton of my tank top, brushing his chest with every motion.
He breaks the kiss just long enough to look up at me.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he murmurs, voice rough like gravel.
“What I need to.”
He leans back slightly, resting on his hands behind him, giving me space. His cock presses up thick and hot through the fabric, and I grind against it with slow precision, feeling myself grow slicker with every pass. I’m already wet. Have been since I stepped into this room.
I lift my arms, peel the tank top over my head, let it drop beside the bed.
His gaze drops to my bare chest. His eyes flare, but he doesn’t move. He’s letting me have control, exactly like I asked.
I reach between us, slide his waistband down, and his cock springs free—hard, heavy, flushed deep with color. I wrap my fingers around it, stroke slowly, watching his breath catch. His thighs tense beneath mine. But he still doesn’t touch me beyond holding my hips.
I shift, pull my panties to the side, and sink down onto him.
We both gasp.
He’s thick. I feel every inch stretch me, fill me. I stay still for a second, adjusting to the pressure, to the perfect way he fits inside me.
Then I start to move.
Slow at first. Just a grind, forward and back, letting my clit rub against the base of him with every stroke. My hands rest on his chest, feeling the warm flex of muscle under his skin.
He groans beneath me but doesn’t try to take over. His fingers dig into my hips, and I know it’s taking everything in him not to flip me, not to fuck me into the mattress like we both know he wants to.
I ride him harder.
My tits bounce with the movement, and his gaze drags over them like he’s memorizing every curve, every breathless sound I make. I watch him watching me. The restraint in him. The fire barely held in check.
