Page 71 of Bratva Bride
Dr. Kamala closed the session with gentle words about integration and continuing the connection, but I barely heard them. All I could process was the weight of what we'd just admitted without saying the actual words.
She felt loved. I needed her.
Everything else was just details.
Thewalkbacktoour villa felt like moving through honey—everything thick with potential, charged with what we'd admitted without quite saying. Anya occasionally skip-walked the way she had on the way there, but something had shifted. Between the skips, she kept glancing at me sideways, biting that lower lip, her flush having nothing to do with tropical sun.
She was floating in that post-therapy space, simultaneously little and not. Part of her was still the girl who'd laughed with pure delight when I spun her, who'd fallen backward into my arms with absolute trust. But underneath that was the woman who'd had her hand wrapped around my cock this morning,who'd whispered "Daddy" in that voice that rewired my nervous system.
"Look," she said, pointing at a butterfly with Marina's paw, and her voice had that light, young quality. "It's orange like sunset."
But then she'd look at me again, and her eyes would go dark with promise. With memory. With want.
The duality of it—innocent little and desperate woman existing simultaneously—was destroying my careful control. Every skip made me want to spin her again. Every heated glance made me want to press her against the nearest palm tree and kiss her until she couldn't remember her own name.
My cock had been semi-hard since we'd left the pavilion, and these glimpses of both sides of Anya weren't helping. The intellectual part of my brain knew we needed transition time. The rest of me was calculating exactly how fast I could get her naked once we reached privacy.
When our villa finally appeared through the palms, my control was held together by threads. Anya seemed to sense it—or maybe she was feeling it too—because her skip-walking had stopped entirely, replaced by purposeful strides that ate up the distance to our door.
Inside, she moved with deliberate intention. Marina and Peanut were placed carefully on the sofa, positioned so they could see the ocean but faced away from the bedroom. She adjusted them twice, making sure they were comfortable, and the care she took with her stuffed protectors made my chest tight with emotions I wasn't ready to name.
Then she turned to face me, and the shift was instantaneous. Her posture changed, shoulders squaring, chin lifting. The soft, young quality dissolved from her eyes, replaced by clear, present focus. This wasn't little Anya anymore.
"I'm big Anya now," she said, voice steady despite the visible tremor in her hands. "And big Anya wants to finish what she started this morning."
Chapter 14
Anya
Theairbetweenuswent electric, charged with something that made my skin feel too tight for my body. Ivan stood perfectly still for three heartbeats—I counted them, watched his pulse jump in his throat, saw the exact moment his control shattered like expensive crystal hitting marble.
He crossed the room in three strides that ate up distance like a predator finally released from its cage. His hands found my face first, fingers threading into my still-damp hair, and then his mouth crashed into mine with a desperation that rewired my entire nervous system.
This wasn't a careful, controlled kiss. This was wild, unhinged, years of suppressed want condensed into the press of lips and teeth and tongue. He kissed me like he was drowning and I was oxygen, like he'd been starving and I was sustenance, like the world would end if he didn't consume me completely.
My back hit the wall—when had we moved?—and his body pressed against mine, all hard planes and barely contained need.His tongue swept into my mouth, claiming and exploring, and the taste of him—coffee and mint and something essentially Ivan—made my knees buckle. Only his weight pinning me to the wall kept me upright.
I was panting when he finally pulled back, gasping for air that had turned thick as honey. But his mouth didn't leave my skin, just relocated to my neck, finding that spot below my ear that made me see stars. His teeth scraped against my pulse point, and the sound that escaped me didn't belong to any language.
"Anya," he groaned against my throat, and my name in his wrecked voice made my pussy clench with violent need. "Fuck, Anya, you have no idea—"
His hands were everywhere suddenly, sliding under my shirt, spanning my ribs, thumbs brushing the undersides of my breasts through my bra. Each touch felt like fire. I arched into him, desperate for more contact, more pressure, more everything.
"Off," I managed, tugging at his shirt with hands that shook. "Please, I need—"
He pulled back just enough to yank his shirt over his head in one fluid motion, and the sight of him—lean muscle and sharp lines and that trail of dark hair disappearing into his waistband—made my mouth go dry. My hands found his chest immediately, mapping territories I'd only imagined. His skin was fever-hot under my palms, his heartbeat hammering against my fingertips like it was trying to escape.
"Your turn," he said, voice rough as gravel, and his hands were already gathering the hem of my shirt. I lifted my arms, let him pull it away, and the hunger in his eyes when he saw me in just my simple cotton bra made me feel like a goddess.
"Beautiful," he breathed, then his mouth was on me again, kissing along my collarbone while his fingers found the clasp of my bra. "So fucking beautiful."
The bra disappeared, and his hands covered my breasts with a reverence that made my chest tight with something beyond arousal. His thumbs found my nipples, already hard and aching, and the gentle pressure made me gasp. But gentle wasn't enough anymore. I needed more, needed everything, needed him.
My fingers found his waistband, fumbling with the button of his linen pants with an urgency that would have been embarrassing if I could think beyond the need pounding through my veins. He helped, shoving the pants down along with his boxers, and then he was naked in front of me and my brain completely short-circuited.
His cock. Jesus Christ, his cock. Long and thick and perfectly shaped, already leaking precum that caught the light filtering through the windows. I'd felt him this morning through fabric, but seeing him—the reality of him—made my pussy throb with anticipation and just a hint of trepidation. He was bigger than I'd imagined, and I'd imagined a lot.
"Like what you see?" There was amusement in his voice, but also vulnerability, like my opinion actually mattered.
