Page 66 of Bratva Bride
"My everything?" There was amusement mixed with the desperation now. "My eloquent genius is still having word problems?"
"Your cock is pressing against me," I shot back. "Excuse me if my doctorate didn't prepare me for this specific scenario."
He laughed—actually laughed—even as his hips pushed up slightly, seeking more pressure. "I don't think they cover this in computational linguistics."
"Definitely not." I was grinding against him in earnest now, chasing sensation, chasing connection, chasing something I couldn't name but needed desperately.
"Anya." He said my name like a prayer and a warning. "If you keep moving like that—"
"What?" I pressed down harder, feeling his cock throb through the fabric. "You'll come in your expensive pants? Ruin the linen with your cum while your wife grinds on you like a desperate little slut?"
The words shocked me as much as him. I didn't talk like that. Had never talked like that. But something about this moment—the vulnerability and power twisted together—made me brave in ways I'd never imagined.
"Fuck," he groaned, and his control was definitely slipping. "You can't just say things like that."
"Why not? It's true." I ground down again, circular motions now that made us both gasp. "I am desperate. I am yours. And I am definitely acting like a—"
His hand came up to cover my mouth, gentle but firm. "You're my good girl," he corrected. "My perfect little one who took her discipline beautifully and deserves to be rewarded."
I moaned against his palm, the sound muffled but unmistakable. He was right. I was his good girl. His perfect Little. And I deserved whatever special something he had planned.
"You've been so good," he continued, his voice dropping to that register that bypassed my brain and spoke directly to my pussy. "So brave and honest and perfect. You deserve to be worshipped. To be shown exactly how much Daddy appreciates his good girl."
The combination of praise and promise made me grind harder, and I felt his cock pulse against me. He was close too. This controlled, calculating man was about to come in hispants from his wife's desperate grinding. The power of that, the knowledge that I affected him this much, was almost as intoxicating as the orgasm still echoing through my system.
"Let me take care of you," he said, and his voice was pure need wrapped in careful words. "Let me show you what you deserve."
He lifted me like I weighed nothing, like carrying me was a privilege rather than an effort. My arms went around his neck instinctively, and I pressed my face into his shoulder, breathing in the scent of him—soap and sunscreen and that underlying note of arousal that made my pussy clench with renewed need.
"The bedroom," he murmured against my hair, already moving with that controlled grace that shouldn't be possible for someone carrying another full-grown human. "I need you spread out on an actual bed for what I'm planning."
What he was planning. The words sent fresh heat through my already molten core. This man who approached everything with strategic precision was now applying that same focus to my pleasure. I was either the luckiest woman alive or about to die from overly intense orgasms. Both seemed equally possible.
The master bedroom was all white linens and ocean views, but I barely registered the luxury. All I could focus on was the massive bed that dominated the space—California king, because of course it was—with sheets that probably cost more than most people's rent. Ivan set me down on the edge with the kind of care usually reserved for priceless artifacts, which maybe I was to him. Something precious. Something worth gentle handling.
"Lie back," he said softly, and his hands were already at my bunched-up sundress, gathering the fabric. "Let me see you."
I lifted my arms, letting him pull the dress over my head in one smooth motion. My bra followed—simple cotton, purple to match the panties still tangled around my thighs from the spanking. Then those too, slipped down my legs and discarded with careful deliberation. Each piece of clothing removed feltlike shedding armor I hadn't known I was wearing, leaving me bare and vulnerable and entirely his.
"Beautiful," he breathed, and his eyes traveled over me with an intensity that felt like physical touch. "Every inch of you. Beautiful."
I wanted to cover myself, that instinctive shame response that twenty-six years of conditioning had built. But the way he was looking at me—hungry and reverent simultaneously—made me brave. I let my legs fall open slightly, let him see how wet I still was, how swollen and ready.
"Please," I whispered, though I wasn't entirely sure what I was begging for. Just . . . something. Everything. Him.
He started at my ankles, pressing kisses to bones I'd never considered erotic until his mouth made them so. His lips traced patterns up my calves, tongue occasionally darting out to taste skin that shivered under the attention. By the time he reached my knees, I was trembling. Not from fear or cold but from anticipation so acute it rewired my nervous system.
"Your skin is so soft," he murmured against my inner thigh, and his breath made me squirm. "Like silk. Like cream. Like everything expensive and perfect."
His mouth continued its worship, kissing and licking and occasionally sucking gentle marks into my thighs. Each touch sent sparks directly to my clit, which throbbed in time with my racing heart. I was going to die. This was how I died—undone by Ivan Volkov's methodical mouth mapping every inch of my legs.
When he reached the crease where thigh met hip, he paused. I could feel his breath against my pussy, could feel him looking at me, and the vulnerability of it made me want to close my legs. But his hands were there, gentle but firm, holding me open.
"So pink," he observed, voice full of wonder. "So swollen. So wet you're dripping onto these expensive sheets."
"Ivan, please—"
"Shh." He pressed a kiss to my inner thigh, so close to where I needed him but not close enough. "Let me appreciate you. Let me worship my good girl who took her spanking so perfectly."
