Page 67 of Bratva Bride
Another kiss, this one to my other thigh. Then my lower stomach, tongue tracing the sensitive skin just above my pubic bone. He was everywhere except where I desperately needed him, and the deliberate avoidance was going to make me combust.
"You're torturing me," I gasped, my hands fisting in the sheets.
"I'm appreciating you," he corrected. "There's a difference."
Then, finally—finally—his mouth found my pussy.
The first touch of his lips against my swollen flesh made me cry out, back arching off the bed. He kissed me there like he'd kissed my mouth that night on the sofa—gentle but thorough, exploring every fold and crevice with patient attention. His tongue traced my outer lips first, gathering the wetness that had accumulated there, and the sound he made—pure masculine satisfaction—vibrated against sensitive tissue.
"You taste incredible," he murmured against me. "Sweet and perfect. Like you were made for my mouth."
Then his tongue pushed inside me, and coherent thought became impossible.
He fucked me with his tongue slowly at first, pushing in deep and retreating, setting a rhythm that made my hips move without permission. His nose pressed against my clit with each thrust, providing pressure that was almost enough but not quite. I was balanced on the edge of pleasure, held there by his masterful control.
"Please," I begged, though the word came out mangled. "Please, I need—"
He knew what I needed. His tongue withdrew from inside me and found my clit, circling it with light pressure that made starsexplode behind my eyelids. Then he sucked—gentle but insistent—and I screamed.
"That's it," he said against me, the words muffled but audible. "Let me hear you. Let me taste you. Let me feel you come apart for me."
His tongue worked my clit with the same precision he applied to financial spreadsheets, finding exactly the rhythm and pressure that wound me tighter and tighter. Two fingers pushed inside me, curling to find that spot that made everything go white at the edges. The dual sensation—his mouth on my clit, his fingers inside me—created a feedback loop of pleasure that built and built until I couldn't breathe around it.
"I'm going to—" I couldn't finish the sentence. "Ivan, I'm—"
"Come for me," he commanded against my flesh. "Come on my tongue. Let me taste how good I make you feel."
The orgasm hit differently than the one from the spanking. That had been overwhelming, transcendent, emotional. This was pure physical pleasure, centered in my clit and radiating outward in waves that made my entire body convulse. I felt myself gush against his mouth, heard him groan with satisfaction, felt him lick and suck through every pulse and clench.
"Ivan!" His name tore from my throat, half scream, half prayer. "Oh god, Ivan, please, I can't—"
But I could, and I did, coming and coming while he worked me through it with that talented mouth. He didn't stop until I was pushing at his head, oversensitized and gasping, aftershocks making my thighs tremble around his shoulders.
Only then did he pull back, pressing gentle kisses to my inner thighs while I tried to remember how breathing worked. His face was wet with me, and the sight of that—proper, controlled Ivan Volkov with my arousal coating his lips—made my pussy clench despite being completely wrung out.
"Good girl," he murmured, crawling up my body to gather me against his chest. "Such a good girl. So perfect for me."
I pressed my face into his neck, inhaling his scent mixed with mine, and felt something in my chest crack and reshape itself. This was what it felt like to be cherished. To be disciplined with love and pleasured with devotion. To be held by someone who saw all your broken pieces and decided to worship them instead of fix them.
Chapter 13
Ivan
ThefirstthingIregistered was warmth—Anya's body pressed against mine, her back to my chest, my arm wrapped around her waist like I'd been trying to keep her from disappearing in the night. She'd actually stayed. Not in the regression room, but here in my bed, wearing nothing but my t-shirt, her bare legs tangled with mine.
I kept perfectly still, not wanting to wake her, needing these stolen moments to process what had happened. To catalog every detail while my brain could still function. Her hair spread across my pillow in dark waves, catching morning light that filtered through the gauze curtains. The ocean breeze carried salt and frangipani through the open windows, but underneath that was something headier—the lingering scent of her arousal from last night, mixed with coconut sunscreen and that particular sweetness that was just Anya.
My body responded before my mind could implement any control protocols. Blood rushed south with single-mindeddetermination, and within seconds I was rock-hard, my cock pressing insistently against the curve of her ass through the thin fabric of my sleep pants. I bit back a groan, trying to shift slightly without waking her, but the movement only created friction that made everything worse. Or better. Or both.
Memories from last night crashed over me in high-definition clarity. The way she'd looked draped across my lap, her ass turning pink under my hand, the sounds she'd made with each spank. How she'd ground against my thigh as she came, soaking through my linen pants with an orgasm that had made her entire body convulse. I'd barely made it to the shower afterward, had to stroke myself hard and fast under the spray, coming so intensely I'd had to brace against the tile wall to keep from collapsing.
Then later—Christ, the taste of her. Sweet and perfect on my tongue, the way she'd clenched around my fingers, how she'd screamed my name as she came again. My cock throbbed at the memories, precum already dampening my sleep pants. This woman made me desperate in ways I'd forgotten existed.
She stirred against me, making a small sound that was half-sigh, half-moan. Her hips pressed back instinctively, and the contact against my erection pulled a sharp inhale from my throat. I watched her surface from sleep in stages—the flutter of eyelashes, the slight tension as consciousness returned, then the full-body awareness as she registered our position. My cock pressed against her. My arm around her waist. The intimacy of waking up together after what we'd shared.
She rolled to face me, and her eyes were soft with sleep but sharp with memory. Color already painted her cheeks, but there was no shame in her expression. Just warmth. Want. Something that might have been wonder.
"Morning, Daddy," she whispered, and the title in her morning-rough voice sent electricity directly to my already aching cock.
