Page 74 of Bratva Bride
The sound he made was inhuman, desperate, and then he was pushing in deeper, steady and relentless, until finally—finally—he was fully seated inside me.
We both stopped breathing. The connection was so intense, so complete, that it felt like we'd merged at some molecular level. I could feel his heartbeat through his cock, or maybe that was my pulse in my pussy—everything was connected, boundaries dissolved, two becoming one in the most fundamental way possible.
I could feel him everywhere, not just where we were joined but somehow in my chest, my throat, behind my eyes where tears were gathering without my permission.
"Breathe," Ivan whispered against my lips, and I realized I'd been holding my breath since he'd pushed fully inside. "Breathe, baby. I've got you."
I sucked in air that tasted like him, like us, like sex and sweat and something deeper. My pussy clenched around him involuntarily, adjusting to his size, and we both groaned at the sensation. He was so deep inside me I could feel him in my stomach, or maybe that was just the intensity of the connection scrambling my anatomy.
"You feel incredible," he breathed, his forehead pressed to mine, eyes closed like he was trying to memorize the sensation. "So tight. So perfect. Like you were made for me."
"Maybe I was," I whispered back, and meant it. "Maybe this is what I was made for."
He started to move then, pulling out just an inch before sliding back in, and that small motion sent shockwaves through my entire system. The drag of his cock against my inner walls, the way my body clung to him like it couldn't bear to let him go—it was almost too intense to process.
"Oh god," I gasped as he pulled out further on the next stroke, maybe halfway, before pushing back in with deliberate slowness. "Ivan, that's—"
"I know," he groaned, his control visible in the tension of his jaw, the way his muscles trembled with restraint. "Fuck, I know. You feel so good I can barely think."
He set a rhythm then, slow and deep, each thrust measured and intentional. Not fucking so much as making love, though both terms felt inadequate for what was happening between us. This was something else entirely—a claiming, a joining, a fundamental rewriting of who we were to each other.
His mouth found mine, and kissing while he moved inside me added another layer of intimacy that made my chest tight with emotion. His tongue matched the rhythm of his hips, pushing deep, retreating, returning. I was being claimed at both ends, filled and consumed and possessed in the most beautiful way possible.
His hands found mine, fingers interlacing, pressing them into the mattress beside my head. The position made me feel pinned, held, secured in place for him to worship with his body. Our joined hands became anchor points while everything else moved—his hips rolling into mine, my legs wrapped around his waist, the slow slide of skin against skin.
"My wife," he said against my mouth, and the words carried weight that had nothing to do with legal documents. "You're my wife, Anya. Mine to protect. Mine to worship. Mine to love."
The word love made my pussy clench around him, and he groaned, his rhythm faltering for a moment before resuming with increased intensity.
"Say it again," I begged, needing the words like oxygen. "Please."
"My wife," he repeated, pulling back to look at me, gray eyes gone nearly black with emotion and arousal. "My beautiful, brilliant wife. You belong to me now."
"Yes," I gasped as he thrust deeper, hitting something inside that made me see stars. "Yours."
"But I belong to you too," he continued, his voice breaking with the admission. "Completely. Utterly. Every part of me is yours, Anya. My body, my protection, my pathetic attempts at control—all yours."
The confession destroyed something in me, rebuilt it stronger. This man who controlled financial empires, who made grown men tremble with a look, was giving himself to me completely. The power of that, the trust inherent in that surrender, made tears spill down my cheeks.
"Don't cry," he whispered, kissing away the salt. "Please don't cry."
"Happy tears," I managed, though my voice was wrecked. "I just—I never thought—"
"Never thought what?" He was still moving inside me, slow and deep, each thrust pushing me higher despite the emotional intensity of the moment.
"That anyone would want me like this. All of me. The broken parts and the healing parts and the parts that need stuffed animals and coloring books."
He stopped moving entirely, buried deep inside me, and his expression shifted to something fierce.
"Listen to me," he said, voice carrying that commanding tone that made my pussy clench. "You are everything I never knew I needed. Every part of you. The woman who researches at three AM because anxiety won't let her sleep. The little who needs Marina and Peanut to feel safe. The survivor who chose to trust despite having every reason not to." His hand released mine to cup my face, thumb stroking my cheekbone. "You are the only person I will ever want."
"Ivan—"
"The only one," he repeated, starting to move again, faster now, deeper. "No one else will ever have this. Have me. You've ruined me for anyone else, and I'm grateful for it."
His words wound around my heart, through my chest, settling into spaces I hadn't known were empty. This wasn't just sex, wasn't just bodies finding pleasure. This was Ivan giving me parts of himself he'd never given anyone, just as I was giving him all my broken, healing pieces.
"I love you," I whispered, the words escaping without permission but feeling absolutely right. "I love you so much it terrifies me."
