Page 113 of The Bratva Betrayal

For a second, I don’t move. I just feel it. The perfect, hot clench of her around me, the way her body trembles. I drop my forehead between her shoulder blades, my breath coming in ragged gusts against her skin.

“Mine,” I growl.

Then I move.

It’s not lovemaking.

It’s a taking.

Each withdrawal is a denial, and each slam back home is a possession.

The rhythm is punishing, driven by a hunger she alone ignites. The mirror in front of us rattles with every thrust. I watch our reflection—her face, pressed against the glass, eyes wide and dark with shock and overwhelming pleasure.

My own is a mask of primal intent, all brooding silence burned away by sheer ferocity.

“You feel that?” I snarl as my hips piston faster. “That’s what you do to me. You break me apart.”

She can only moan, a continuous, helpless stream of sound that fuels the fire. Her hands slip on the glass. I wrap an arm around her waist, hauling her back against me even harder and deepening the angle.

She gasps, her inner muscles clenching around me in a sudden, violent spasm.

She’s close again. I feel it building in the tension of her body, in the way her cries pitch higher.

“No,” I command, grinding deep and stilling for a moment, denying us both. Sweat drips from my temple onto her bare shoulder. “Not yet. You come when I tell you to.”

I resume the pace, slower now, but deeper with each thrust. My free hand slides around her hip, through the wetness between her legs, and finds her swollen clit.

I can’t last any longer.

This woman breaks all my resolve and patience until nothing is left but raw, feral need.

“Now, Lisichka,” I demand, my voice a dark, unwavering command. I press my thumb in a relentless circle just as I spear up into her, hitting a spot that makes me see stars.

She shatters.

Her orgasm is a silent scream against the mirror, her body convulsing around mine in wave after relentless wave. It pulls my release from me, a savage, roaring thing that empties me into her depths.

I bury myself to the hilt, muffling my groans against her skin. My hips jerk through the aftershocks as I mark her, claim her, in the most primitive way I know how.

For long moments, the only sounds are our harsh breaths. I stay inside her, my body heavy against hers. My grip on her hip is the only thing keeping her upright.

Slowly, I lift my head, and our eyes meet in the reflection.

Hers are glassy, and mine are still dark and feral, but with a grim, satisfied certainty.

I withdraw slowly, and she whimpers.

I turn her to face me. Her legs are still unsteady as I hold her up while I look down at the mess I’ve made of her.

The smeared lipstick, the flushed skin, and the discarded wedding gown crumpled at our feet that she’ll never wear.

I don’t apologize.

I don’t offer sweet words.

I say the only thing that matters. The truth she has just been forced to feel in every nerve ending.

“You are mine,” I tell her, my words final and absolute. “The talking about it is done. You’ll never be a pawn for someone else’s gain. You’re just… mine.”