Page 10 of My Bratva Stalker

I stroke again. Slow. Deliberate. Controlled.

Letting her see everything. Letting her understand this is what she fucking does to me. This is all because of her.

Her sweet, untouched cunt. Her soft, thick body that was made to be fucked and bred.

Her just being here. Finally, here.

I lock eyes with her. Hold that wide, helpless stare.

And then I say it. Low. Rough. Final. “Come here.”

Marie

I should leave. I should turn and run, slam the door, pretend I never saw this. Pretend I didn’t just walk in on Viktor Maksimov—massive, powerful, terrifying bratva kingpin—jerking off in the dark.

Pretend I don’t see his thick cock in his fist, slick and pulsing, his grip rough, his chest rising and falling with heavy, ragged breaths.

Pretend I don’t feel my clit throb at the sight of him.

I should be horrified. I should be afraid. But instead—I’m burning.

His voice is low, deep, commanding. “Come here.”

Two words. An order. And I obey.

My legs feel weak and unsteady. I take a step. Then another.

He doesn’t stop stroking himself. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t move, except for the slow, deliberate drag of his fist up and down his cock. His fingers tighten at the base, his knuckles whitening, his sensual lips parting as a low growl escapes his throat.

I feel it. Deep. Low. Between my legs. I squeeze my thighs together, but it only makes the ache worse. I don’t know what’shappening to me.

I don’t know why I can’t stop moving toward him.

But I can’t.

I don’t want to.

I stop right in front of him.

Close enough to smell him.

Clean, sharp, masculine.

Close enough that if I moved even an inch forward, my thighs would brush his knees.

He exhales slowly, his fingers finally releasing his cock.

My breath catches.

I don’t know if I’m relieved or disappointed.

But then he reaches for me.

And everything stops.

His fingers graze my sweater.

Just the hem.

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