Page 68 of Bratva Bride
Her hand moved between us, tentative but deliberate, fingertips tracing down my chest with clear intent. Each point of contact felt like fire through my t-shirt, and my breath went shallow as she explored lower. Her eyes stayed on mine, watching my face as her hand descended, cataloging my responses with that brilliant mind that never stopped analyzing.
"Can I—" she started, then paused, biting that lower lip in a way that made me want to bite it for her. "I want to touch you. The way you touched me. Is that—can I?"
"Yes." The word came out rougher than intended, desperate and needy in a way that should have embarrassed me but didn't. Not with her. "God, yes, Anya. Please."
Her fingers found the waistband of my sleep pants, hesitating for just a moment before her palm pressed against me through the fabric. The contact made my hips jerk involuntarily, and she made a small sound of discovery at my reaction. Her touch was curious, exploratory, not practiced or performative but honest in its investigation. She was learning me, mapping my responses with the same focused attention she brought to everything.
"You're so hard," she observed, wonder in her voice as her fingers traced my length through the cotton. "Is this from—from last night?"
"From everything," I managed, my voice wrecked. "From you in my bed. Your scent. The memories. The way you said 'Daddy' just now."
She pressed more firmly, and I had to close my eyes against the intensity. Her touch was unpracticed but that made it more erotic—the genuine curiosity, the careful exploration, the way she was discovering what made me gasp and twitch. This wasn't performance. This was Anya learning my body the way I'd learned hers, with focused attention and genuine desire to understand.
Her hand slipped beneath the waistband, and the first contact of skin on skin made us both freeze. Her fingers wrapped around my cock with tentative pressure, and the sensation was so intense I saw stars. Soft hands, slightly cool against my heated flesh, learning the shape and weight of me with careful touches.
"Ivan," she breathed, and my name in her mouth while her hand held my cock was going to be my undoing. "You're—"
A knock at the door shattered the moment like glass.
We both froze, her hand still wrapped around me, my hips canted toward her touch. Three seconds of absolute stillness while reality reasserted itself.
"Mr. and Mrs. Volkov?" Aisha's voice carried through the door, professionally apologetic but insistent. "I'm so sorry to disturb you, but you have the couples' sensory play session booked in thirty minutes. I can reschedule if you'd prefer, but Dr. Kamala's sessions are quite popular and the next opening isn't until Friday."
Anya's hand was still on my cock, and I could feel her pulse through her palm, rapid and unsteady. My own heartbeat was trying to escape through my chest. The interrupted moment hung between us, charged with potential energy that had nowhere to go.
"We'll—" My voice cracked like a teenager's. I cleared my throat, tried again while Anya's hand slowly withdrew, leaving me aching and desperate. "We'll be there. Thank you, Aisha."
"Of course. My apologies again for the interruption."
Her footsteps retreated down the wooden walkway, and Anya and I stared at each other, both breathing like we'd run marathons. Her hand hovered between us, fingers that had just been wrapped around me now curling into her palm. The moment stretched, taut with interrupted desire and the question of what came next.
"We could skip it," I said, the words coming out rough with residual arousal. "Tell them we're not feeling well. Food poisoning. Death. Whatever works."
Anya laughed, but it was breathy, affected. She was still flushed, her pupils dilated, that particular brightness in her eyes that meant her brilliant brain was processing seventeen things simultaneously. "What's sensory play? In this context, I mean. I know the clinical definition, but—"
"It's supposed to be excellent for Littles working through trauma," I admitted, watching her expression shift from arousal to interest. "Dr. Kamala—the therapist running it—she's apparently renowned for her work with age regression and sensory integration. Published papers on trauma recovery through controlled sensory experiences."
Her eyes lit up the way they did when she encountered new information worth analyzing. The scientist in her was suddenly at war with the aroused woman who'd just had her hand wrapped around my cock. I could see the battle playing out across her features—intellectual curiosity versus physical want.
"We could do both," I suggested, letting my voice drop to that register that made her breath catch. "Go to the session. Learn whatever Dr. Kamala has to teach. Then come back here and finish what we started." I leaned closer, close enough that my breath stirred her hair. "Let you explore every inch of me without interruption. See how many different ways you can make me lose control."
The shudder that ran through her was deeply satisfying. "That's—" She swallowed, visibly collecting herself. "That's a good plan. Logical. Sequential."
"Very logical," I agreed, though nothing about my current state felt remotely logical. "We should get ready."
"Separately," she said quickly. "Shower separately. Because if we—if you're naked and wet and—" She stopped, face burning. "Separately."
The shower was torture. Hot water sluicing over skin that felt too sensitive, every nerve still firing from interrupted pleasure. My cock stayed stubbornly hard, demanding attention I couldn't give it—not when I'd promised Anya she could be the one to push me over the edge later. I turned the water to cold for the last thirty seconds, shocking my system into something resembling control.
When I emerged, Anya had already dressed in soft cotton shorts and a loose t-shirt—the comfortable clothes the resort had suggested. Her hair was still damp from her own shower, and she'd brought Marina and Peanut out to the living room, arranging them carefully on the sofa like guardians of our space.
"Ready?" I asked, though ready was relative when my body still hummed with want.
She nodded, but took my hand as we left the villa, and that simple contact felt like everything.
The wooden pathway to the therapy pavilion wound through tropical gardens, over water that was so clear I could see fish darting beneath our feet. But it was Anya I watched, cataloging the subtle changes in how she moved through the world here.
She did a little skip-hop over a gap in the boards—not necessary, the gap was maybe three inches, but the movement was pure childhood joy. When a school of yellow fish passed beneath us, she stopped entirely, tugging my hand to make me look too.
