Page 75 of Bratva Bride
He made a sound like I'd punched him, then his mouth was on mine, desperate and hungry. His hips snapped forward harder, the careful control starting to crack. Our fingers were still interlaced, pressed into the mattress, and his grip tightened like I might disappear if he let go.
"Say it again," he demanded against my lips.
"I love you," I repeated, louder this time. "I love you, Ivan. Daddy. I love all of you."
"Anya," he groaned, and my name had never sounded like that before—like prayer and possession and promise all at once. "My perfect girl. My wife. Mine. I love you, too."
The mine should have sounded possessive in a bad way, but instead it made me feel claimed in the best possible sense. Not owned like property, but claimed like something precious. Protected. Cherished. Loved, even if he hadn't said the words back yet.
The careful control shattered like ice in spring, and suddenly Ivan was fucking me with an intensity that made our earlier slowness feel like a different lifetime. His hips snapped forward, driving deep, and the sound of skin against skin filled the room along with our desperate breathing. But even in this rawness, his hands stayed gentle on my face, his kisses tender between the gasps.
"Need to feel more of you," he groaned, and then he was pulling out completely, leaving me empty and clenching around nothing. "Turn over. Hands and knees."
I scrambled to comply, my body already missing his, and when I felt him position himself behind me, my back arched automatically, presenting myself like an offering. His hand ran down my spine, fingertips tracing each vertebra, before gripping my hip with possession that made me moan.
"Look at you," he breathed, and I could hear the awe in his voice. "So perfect for me. So ready."
He pushed back inside in one smooth thrust, and the angle—god, the angle was everything. Deeper than before, hitting places that made my arms shake with the effort of holding myself up. My face dropped to the mattress, ass still high, and the position made me feel exposed and claimed simultaneously.
"Yes," I gasped into the sheets. "Like that. Please, just like that."
His rhythm was punishing now, each thrust driving me forward, only his hands on my hips keeping me in place. But then he was pulling me up, my back against his chest, one arm banded around my waist while the other hand found my throat—not choking, just holding, feeling my pulse race under his palm.
"Mine," he growled in my ear, and his cock hit something inside that made my vision white out for a second. "Say it."
"Yours," I gasped, my head falling back against his shoulder. "Always yours."
His hand slid down from my throat to my breast, fingers finding my nipple and rolling it between them. The dual sensation—his cock filling me, his fingers on my sensitive flesh—was rapidly pushing me toward another edge. My pussy was clenching around him rhythmically, trying to keep him inside, trying to pull him deeper.
"Touch yourself," he commanded, his voice rough against my ear. "I want to feel you come around my cock."
My hand shakily found my clit, and the first touch made me cry out. I was so swollen, so sensitive from his mouth earlier, that even the lightest pressure sent shockwaves through my system. I circled slowly at first, trying to make it last, but Ivan's thrusts were getting harder, faster, more desperate.
"That's it," he encouraged, his breath hot against my neck. "My good girl, touching herself while Daddy fucks her. So perfect."
The combination of his praise, his cock, my fingers on my clit—it was too much. The orgasm built like a tide, inevitable and overwhelming. My free hand reached back, finding his hair, needing something to hold onto as everything in me wound tighter and tighter.
"I'm close," I gasped. "Ivan, I'm so close—"
"Come for me," he commanded, his teeth finding that spot where neck met shoulder. "Come on my cock like a good girl."
The orgasm detonated through me like a controlled explosion, radiating out from my core in waves that seemed to touch every cell. My pussy clenched around him so hard it bordered on painful, rhythmic pulses that made us both cry out. I could feel myself gushing, could hear the wet sounds our bodies made as he fucked me through it, drawing out every aftershock.
"Fuck," he groaned, his rhythm faltering. "Anya, I'm—I can't—"
"Inside," I begged, the word tearing from my throat. "Please, come inside me. Fill me up. I want to feel it."
His control snapped completely. Three more hard thrusts, each one driving deeper than the last, and then he was coming with a sound that was half roar, half sob. I could feel it—every pulse of his cock, every rope of cum filling me, marking me from the inside. He held himself deep, grinding against me as heemptied himself, and the feeling of being filled, claimed, bred, sent another smaller orgasm rippling through me.
We stayed like that for long moments, him still buried inside me, both of us shaking with the intensity of what had just happened. His arms around me were the only thing keeping me upright, and when he finally, carefully, pulled out, I whimpered at the loss.
He laid me down gently, like I was something precious that might break, then gathered me against his chest. I could feel his cum starting to leak out of me, and instead of being embarrassed, I found myself pressing my thighs together, trying to keep it inside. Some primitive part of my brain wanted it to take, wanted to carry his child, wanted that permanent connection to this man who'd just rewritten my entire existence.
The thought should have terrified me. We'd been married less than two weeks. I was still learning how to exist in my own skin. But the idea of being pregnant with Ivan's baby, of creating something from this love we'd just confessed, felt right in a way that defied logic.
"What are you thinking?" he asked, pressing kisses to my hair, my temple, anywhere he could reach.
"Dangerous things," I admitted.
