Page 25 of Bratva Baby

He groans, eyes rolling back. “That’s it. Squeeze me. Give me everything.” He keeps thrusting through my orgasm, relentless. “I’m going to wreck this bed,” he mutters. “You’re going to feel me for days.”

I whimper, “Yes—do it.”

He pulls out suddenly, flips me onto my stomach, and drags my hips up. “Hands on the headboard,” he orders. I obey, gripping the wood. He lines up behind me and plunges in from behind.

I cry out, “Oh, God!”

He grabs my hair, yanking my head back. “Such a perfect ass,” he snarls. “Look at you taking me. Fuck.” His thrusts get even deeper from this angle. His free hand smacks my ass, sharp and hot. I yelp.

“You like that,” he notes, voice wrecked. He spanks me again, watching the red bloom. “Say you like it.”

“I like it,” I whimper. “I like how you handle me.”

He growls, pounding me into the mattress as he bites the back of my neck, tongue soothing over the mark. “I’ve been obsessed with fucking you like this since the night I laid my eyes on you,” he admits, voice ragged in my ear.

I shudder, his words shooting straight to my core. “Anton,” I plead. “Fuck⁠—”

“I’m going to fill you up,” he snarls. “You want that? You want my cum deep inside you?”

“Yes,” I scream. “Give it to me.”

He thrusts harder, driving me up the headboard. My arms shake, but his grip on my hair keeps me steady. He slams in once more and groans, “Sofiya, fuck—” He spills into me, hot and pulsing. I feel it flood my womb, and it triggers another orgasm. I cry out, clenching around him as he throbs inside me.

He collapses over my back, breathing hard, fingers still tangled in my hair. “Shit,” he pants. “Shit, Sofiya.” He presses kisses down my spine, soft amid the aftershocks. “You good?”

“Yes,” I breathe, collapsing onto the sheets. He pulls out slowly, and I whine at the emptiness. He flips me onto my back and kisses me tenderly. “You were perfect,” he murmurs against my mouth. “Every second.”

I cup his jaw. “That was… out of the book.”

He smirks, brushing hair out of my face. “You started this,” he reminds me. “You walked into my territory and tempted me.”

“I don’t regret it,” I admit.

“Neither do I.” He trails kisses down my throat, lingering over the fresh marks. “I’m going to stare at these bruises all week and remember you screaming my name.”

Heat surges through me again. “You planning to leave more?”

“Oh, definitely.” He sucks another hickey onto my collarbone. I moan, tangling my fingers in his hair.

“Then take what you want,” I whisper.

He grins, wicked and satisfied. “Gladly.”

He does.

After the rush burns down into sweat, tangled sheets, and the kind of silence that only comes when two people have gone too far to pretend otherwise, he rolls me onto my side and pulls me back against his chest. His mouth drags over the back of my neck, slow and lazy now, and his hand settles low on my stomach like it belongs there.

I turn my head, catch the dark gleam of his eye in the half-light, and kiss him again.

When we finally fall asleep, it happens without discussion. One minute, his hand is spread over my hip and his breath is warm against my hair, and the next, the room has gone heavy and still around us.

I wake while the windows are still dark.

For a moment, I lie there and do nothing. Anton is half on his stomach beside me, one arm thrown toward the space I occupied, his face slack with sleep in a way that makes him look younger and somehow more dangerous for it.

Men like him shouldn’t look peaceful. They should not look like something a woman could wake beside twice.

I can see it too easily, and that’s the problem. Me learning this suite, this bed, the look on his face when he wants me. Him learning how to get under my skin so thoroughly, I stop hearing the alarms.