Page 72 of Bratva Bride
"You're—" I reached out, wrapping my fingers around him the way I had this morning, but now with nothing between us. His skin was silk over steel, hot and perfect in my hand. "You're perfect."
He made a sound that might have been a laugh or a sob, then his fingers were hooking into my shorts, pulling them down along with my panties in one desperate motion. I stepped out of them, kicked them away, and then we were both naked, breathing hard, staring at each other like we'd discovered something impossible.
"I've wanted this," he said, voice breaking on the words. "God, Anya, I've wanted you since that first day.”
"Ivan," I whispered, and his name came out like a prayer.
"Every day since," he continued, pressing his forehead to mine. "Every fucking day, wanting you. Watching you settle into my space, into my life. Seeing you with Marina and Peanut, coloring at three AM, existing in my world like you belonged there. Because you do belong there. You belong with me."
My heart was trying to escape through my ribs, pounding so hard I could hear it in my ears. This man—this brilliant, dangerous, carefully controlled man—was confessing to wanting me with a desperation that matched my own. The power of that, the perfect symmetry of mutual desire, made me brave.
"Then have me," I said, the words clear despite my shaking. "I'm right here. I'm yours. Have me."
The next thing I knew, Ivan was on his knees in front of me, and the sight of him there—this man who made grown men tremble—kneeling at my feet like I was something holy, broke something in me.
His hands slid up the backs of my thighs, fingertips tracing patterns that made my skin feel electric. His gray eyes looked up at me, dilated black with want but still seeking permission, still making sure this was what I wanted. As if I hadn't been dripping for him since this morning. As if my pussy wasn't already clenching around nothing, desperate to be filled.
"Please," I whispered, my hands finding his hair, threading through the dark strands. "Ivan, please."
He pressed a kiss to my inner thigh first, gentle and reverent, and even that small contact made me gasp. Then his hands were spreading me wider, positioning me against the wall for support, and his breath ghosted over my pussy in a way that made my clit throb.
"So wet," he murmured, and his voice against my sensitive flesh sent vibrations through my entire core. "Already so ready for me."
The first touch of his tongue made my knees buckle. Only his hands on my hips and the wall at my back kept me upright as he licked a long, slow stripe from my entrance to my clit. The sound that tore from my throat wasn't human—it was pure animal need given voice.
He groaned against me, the vibration making everything clench, and then he was devouring me like a man who'd been denied water in the desert. His tongue pushed inside me, fucking me with the same desperate rhythm he'd used to kiss my mouth, while his nose pressed against my clit in a pressure that made stars explode behind my eyelids.
I was already so close. The morning's interrupted pleasure, the spanking yesterday, the emotional intensity of the sensory session, the wild kiss just moments ago—everything had wound me so tight that I was balanced on the edge before he'd barely started. My body had been primed for this, waiting for this, desperate for this.
"Ivan," I gasped, my fingers tightening in his hair. "I'm already—I can't—"
He pulled back just enough to look up at me, and his face—lips already swollen and glistening with my arousal—was the most erotic thing I'd ever seen.
"Then don't hold back," he said, voice wrecked. "Come for me, baby. Let me taste it."
His mouth returned to my pussy with renewed focus, tongue circling my clit with the same precision he applied to everything else. But this wasn't clinical or calculated—this was hungry, desperate, a man consuming what he'd been starved for. He sucked my clit between his lips, gentle pressure that made my thighs shake, and that was all it took.
The orgasm hit like lightning striking water, spreading out in waves that seemed to touch every nerve ending simultaneously. My back arched off the wall, my hands fisted in his hair hardenough that it had to hurt, and I screamed. Actually screamed, the sound echoing off the villa's walls as my pussy clenched and pulsed and gushed against his eager mouth.
He didn't stop. Didn't even slow down. His tongue worked me through every pulse, every clench, drawing out the pleasure until I was sobbing from the intensity. My legs gave out completely, and only his hands holding my hips kept me from sliding down the wall into a puddle of post-orgasmic uselessness.
"So perfect," he murmured against my oversensitive flesh, pressing gentle kisses to my inner thighs as the aftershocks rolled through me. "The way you come apart for me. The sounds you make. The way you taste."
I was shaking, my entire body one exposed nerve, when he finally stood. His face was wet with me, and the sight of my arousal on his lips, his chin, made my pussy clench despite having just come harder than ever before in my life.
"Come here," he said softly, gathering me against his chest when my legs wobbled. His cock pressed against my stomach, still hard, still leaking, but he seemed in no rush now. Like making me come had been the only priority.
I pulled his face down to mine, needing to kiss him, needing that connection. The taste of myself on his tongue should have been strange, maybe embarrassing, but instead it was intoxicating. This was us mixed together, my arousal and his hunger, proof of what we did to each other. I licked into his mouth, chasing the flavor, and his groan vibrated through both our bodies.
"You taste like mine," he said against my lips when we finally broke apart to breathe. "Like everything mine."
The possessiveness in his voice, coupled with the tenderness in how he held me, made my chest tight with emotions too big to name. This was Ivan without masks, without control, without the careful distance he maintained with the rest of the world.This was the man who'd planned purple rooms and private islands, who'd held me through panic attacks and taught me I was worth protecting.
"Bed," I managed, my voice rough from screaming. "I need—we need—bed."
My legs still weren't working properly, trembling like I'd run a marathon instead of just standing against a wall while Ivan Volkov ate my pussy like it was his job. The orgasm had rewired something fundamental in my nervous system, left me feeling liquid and electric simultaneously.
"I've got you," he murmured, and then his arms were under my knees and shoulders, lifting me like I weighed nothing. Like carrying me was a privilege rather than an effort. My arms went around his neck automatically, and I pressed my face into his shoulder, breathing in the scent of him—sweat and arousal and deep, dark musk.
