Page 71 of Obsessed Bratva King

Just her.

She’s warm, soft, and so goddamn real beneath my hands, her breath catching as I deepen the kiss, tasting the slight bitterness of the water she just drank, the heat of her mouth against mine.

My hands slide down, fingertips brushing over the curve of her waist, the softness of her stomach where our child grows. Dr. Roth has confirmed it many times. I keep insisting on appointments. The baby is fine.

She shudders against me, and I swallow the sound, letting it sink into my skin, branding it into my bones.

This woman. Mine.

She leans into me, her body pressing against my chest, her nails digging lightly into the front of my shirt like she’s trying to hold on, trying to pull me closer. As if she doesn’t realize I’d already give her everything.

I kiss her harder. Slower.

My tongue sweeps against hers, coaxing, owning. Her knees go weak, and I guide her back against the sink, my palm bracing against the marble beside her hip, my other hand sliding into her hair, tugging just enough to tilt her head back, exposing her throat.

"Ivan," she whispers.

"Shh, printsessa," I murmur against her lips, watching her eyes flutter shut, the rise and fall of her chest quickening. "Let me take care of you."

Her lips part, but she doesn’t protest.

So I do.

I trail my mouth down, along her jaw, the column of her throat, feeling the pulse hammering beneath her skin. She tilts her head to the side, giving me more, her body relaxing, surrendering.

Fuck.

This woman, so strong, so fierce, melting for me like this.

I drop to my knees, my hands skimming over the soft fabric of her dress as I pull it up, as I expose the smooth skin of her thighs. I press my lips against the sensitive skin just above her knee.

"You’re beautiful," I murmur against her skin. "Every inch of you."

She shakes her head slightly, but I grip her hips, hold her still.

"You are," I insist, pressing a slow, open-mouthed kiss against her inner thigh.

She gasps.

I do it again. Softer. Deeper.

Her fingers tighten in my hair. Her body trembles.

I look up, finding her watching me, her lips parted, her cheeks flushed, her chest rising and falling too fast.

"Ivan—"

"Let me worship you, printsessa," I murmur, dragging my mouth higher.

Her head falls back against the mirror, her breath coming in uneven gasps.

And I take my time, making her forget everything except the way I make her feel.

I kiss her, taste her sweetness, drag her to the edge again and again until letting her cross over. She comes hard, grinding against me, her body shaking, her fingers tugging at my hair as she moans my name.

Only then, when she’s spent, do I rise, pulling her into my arms, pressing my forehead against hers.

She’s breathing hard, eyes dazed, lips swollen from mine.

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