Page 93 of Scarred Bratva King

His breath comes in short, sharp bursts, and I can feel the way his body tenses beneath me, the way he’s trying to hold back.

“You feel so good,” I whisper, my nails digging into his shoulders just enough to leave a mark.

He groans, his hands finally moving to grip my hips, but I stop him with a sharp look.

“I said don’t touch,” I remind him, my voice firm.

He growls in frustration but pulls his hands away, his fingers curling into fists.

I pick up the pace, my hips moving faster, his cock hitting that spot inside me that makes my vision blur.

My fingers move between us, finding my clit, and I circle it with just the right amount of pressure.

“You’re so fucking tight,” he mutters, his voice rough with desire.

“And you’re so fucking hard,” I reply, my breath hitching as the pleasure builds.

I can feel my orgasm approaching, the coil in my stomach tightening with every thrust.

His hands grip the armrests again, and I can see the way he’s struggling to hold back, the way his body trembles beneath me.

“I’m close,” I whisper, my voice trembling with need.

“Come for me,” he growls, his eyes locked on mine.

I do, my body shuddering as the waves of pleasure crash over me. My hips stutter, my fingers still working my clit as I ride out the orgasm, my nails digging into his shoulders.

He doesn’t last much longer. With a guttural groan, he comes inside me, his body tensing as he spills himself.

I collapse against him, my breath coming in short, sharp bursts, my body still trembling with the after effects of my orgasm.

“Fuck, Veronica,” he mutters, his hands finally moving to my hips, holding me close. He chuckles, a low, dark sound that sends a shiver down my spine. “You’re a dangerous woman.”

I glance toward the window. The blinds are wide open, and the street outside is alive with people going about their evening.

“Maxim,” I say, nudging him with my foot. “We forgot to close the blinds.”

He looks over, his lips curving into a wicked grin as he whispers in my ear. “I don’t care. Do you?”

EPILOGUE

IVAN

The first thing I notice is the smell—damp, moldy, with a coppery tang of blood clinging to the air.

My head pounds like someone’s been using it for target practice. I blink, trying to clear my vision, but the room around me stays stubbornly blurred.

The dim light overhead flickers, casting sickly shadows on the cracked concrete walls.

I’m tied to a chair. Thick rope bites into my wrists and ankles. The back of my skull feels sticky—blood, most likely—and my muscles ache like I’ve gone ten rounds with a heavyweight champ.

My shirt is torn, my ribs bruised. Still alive, though. For now.

I take a slow, deliberate breath, letting the pain sharpen my focus.Think, Ivan. How did you get here?

The last thing I remember is heading to that trafficking site. Lombardi’s men were there. All I had to do was blow the place up. What happened?

I test the ropes around my wrists, twisting them just enough to feel the resistance. They’ve been tied tight, but not expertly. Amateurs. A faint grin tugs at my lips. Amateurs are predictable.

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