Page 8 of My Bratva Stalker

But it felt real.

And I can’t shake it.

The room is too quiet. The silence presses in, amplifying the fear curling deep in my gut.

I roll on my side, forcing my breathing to slow, but it doesn’t help.

I still feel like I’m being watched.

Like if I close my eyes, I’ll open them to find someone standing over me.

My stomach twists. I know I’m safe here. I know Viktor wouldn’t let anything happen to me.

So why does it feel like I can’t breathe?

The pressure in my chest builds until I can’t take it anymore.

Before I can think better of it—I stand to go to find him.

When I reach the door he showed me as his bedroom, I almost turn around. Almost tell myself this is stupid, that I’m being ridiculous, that I can handle this on my own.

But then I see it. His bedroom door is cracked open. A sliver of darkness spilling into the dimly lit hallway.

I hesitate.

Maybe he’s asleep. Maybe I should just go back to bed.

But I don’t hear anything. No movement. No low murmur of his voice on a call. Just silence.

I lift a hand, give a soft knock.

Nothing.

Another knock.

Still nothing.

I swallow hard, shifting on my bare feet.

And then—I push the door open.

My breath leaves me in a rush.

Because there he is. Viktor Maksimov. Seated in a large, black leather chair, legs spread wide, slouched just enough to look wrecked, powerful, and completely fucking obscene. With his cock in his fist. And it’s not just any cock. It’s the biggest, thickest, most devastating thing I’ve ever seen in my life. On screen, paper, and in the flesh. It’s thick, long, hard, slick at the tip, his fingers gripping the base, veins pulsing, his knuckles white from how tightly he’s gripping himself.

My mouth goes dry. My body goes hot.

I should leave. I should back away. But I don’t. I can’t.

I watch as his heavy-lidded gaze flicks up straight to me. His expression doesn’t change. Not a flicker of surprise. Like he expected me here. Like he wanted me to see this.

And then, with a slow exhale, he strokes himself. Long. Deliberate. So fucking slow.

My thighs press together. I feel a sharp, pulsing ache between my legs, the slow throb of my clit.

No.

No, no, no.

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