Page 95 of Forced By the Bratva

He repeated the same thing.

“Again.” I quickened my pace, toes curling as I felt another orgasm building already, tight and close.

“My cock belongs to you, my love,” he said, his voice dripping with pleasure. “It’s yours forever.”

“Fuck, I’m going to come on your cock,” I told him. “And you’re going to watch. You’re not allowed to come until I say.”

“As you wish, my lady,” he groaned, hips trying to thrust up to meet me.

I kept the rhythm I wanted, using him, taking what I needed. When the pleasure finally broke, it tore through me hard, and I cried out, clenching around him in waves, riding it out while he watched with dark, desperate eyes.

I didn’t stop moving. I slowed just enough to stay on the edge of oversensitive, then started building again.

Sweat slicked our skin. The scent of sex and candle smoke hung heavy. I leaned down and bit the side of his neck, then soothed it with my tongue.

“Please,” he rasped.

“Not yet.”

I kept him there, tortured and hard and aching inside me, until I came a second time—shaking, moaning his name, dripping down his cock. Only then did I give him what he needed.

“Come,” I said, watching the way his face was twisted in ecstasy. “Fill me up. Now.”

He bucked his hip, shooting upward with a sound so guttural it vibrated in his throat.

The orgasm ripped through him with a broken groan. I felt every pulse, every hot spurt deep inside me, while he strained against the cuffs and spilled everything he had.

“That’s it. Gimme all of you.” My voice was a low growl, desperate and needy.

I stayed seated on him through it, rolling my hips in small, greedy circles, milking him until he had nothing left.

His legs shook beneath me, and for a long moment, the only sound was our breathing.

Eventually, I lifted off him carefully and freed his hands, the cuffs falling to the bed. The second he was free, he pulled me down against his chest and held me there, both of us sticky and spent and still trembling.

I rested my head over his heart and listened to it slow. His fingers traced idle patterns along my spine. Neither of us spoke for a while. The red light kept glowing. The candles burned lower. Crushed petals stuck to our skin and the sheets.

After a few minutes, I shifted and reached for the whip again. He raised an eyebrow but didn’t stop me. I trailed the soft leather across his chest, down the center of his abs, then lower.

He was already half-hard again. I wrapped my hand around him and stroked slowly until he thickened fully in my grip.

“Again?” he asked, voice still rough.

“Again.”

I guided him back inside me, this time facing away, and rode him reverse. I braced my hands on his thighs and moved with more force, taking him deep on every downward stroke.

He sat up behind me, one arm banding around my waist, the other hand finding my breast and squeezing. His mouth opened against the side of my neck, teeth scraping, tongue soothing.

“You’re still so wet,” he muttered against my skin. “Dripping all over me.”

“Because you keep fucking me like you mean it.”

He laughed once, low, and thrust up to meet me. The new angle hit something sharper.

I dropped my head back onto his shoulder and let him take on more of the work as his hips snapped up while I ground down to meet every stroke.

The new angle hit deeper. I reached up, swiped two fingers through the saliva at the corner of my mouth, and brought them straight down between my legs.