Page 11 of Claimed and Bred By the Bratva

"But I do." The admission rumbles from somewhere deep in my chest. "I want to devour every inch of you. Want to consume you until there's no telling where I end and you begin."

Her pupils dilate, swallowing her eyes until they are pure midnight. "That sounds..."

"Terrifying?"

"Exactly what I want."

Fuck. This girl will be my undoing.

I release her wrists to unhook her bra with practiced ease. It falls away, and I have to lock my knees to stay upright. Her breasts are full and high, the deep brown nipples already tight with arousal. Art. She's fucking art, and I'm about to desecrate a masterpiece with my bloodstained hands.

"You're so fucking beautiful," I breathe, unable to stop my hands from reaching for her. They fit my palms perfectly, like they were made for me. "So perfect it hurts to look at you."

She gasps when my thumbs brush over her nipples, back arching in an unconscious offering that nearly breaks my control. "Dimitri..."

"I know, little angel. I know."

I lower my head to taste her, tongue swirling around one dark peak before drawing it into my mouth. She cries out, fingers tangling in my hair hard enough to hurt, and the pain grounds me. Reminds me to go slow. To savor this. I switch to her other breast, sucking and nipping until she's writhing against me, making these soft, desperate sounds that go straight to my cock. Her skin tastes like vanilla and sunshine, like everything good in this world that I've been denied.

"Please," she whimpers. "I need... I don't know what I need."

"I do." I lift my head to meet her gaze, noting the way her lips are swollen from biting them. "I know exactly what you need."

I walk her backward until her legs hit the bed, then lower her onto the black silk sheets with more care than I've shown anything in two decades. She looks like a goddess against the dark fabric—all that warm brown skin glowing, those braids spread out like a halo, that barely-there beauty mark near her jawline that I've fantasized about kissing.

I strip off my shirt, and her eyes go wide. Not at the muscles or the body I've honed into a weapon, but at the scars. The roadmap of violence etched into my skin. She reaches out tentatively, fingertips ghosting over a particularly brutal mark near my shoulder—a gift from a rival who thought he could take what was mine. The bullet had gone clean through, but the exit wound left a crater of puckered flesh.

"Does it hurt?" she asks softly.

"Not anymore." I catch her hand, pressing her palm flat against my chest where my heart hammers like a caged beast. "Nothing hurts when you touch me." It's the truth. For the first time in years, the constant ache of loss and rage quiets under her touch. I make quick work of the rest of my clothes, watching her face as she takes in all of me. Her eyes go comically wide at the sight of my cock, and fresh worry flickers across her features.

"That's... you're..." She swallows hard. "Will it fit?"

A laugh rumbles from my chest—the second time she's pulled genuine laughter from me. "We'll make it fit, angel. Your body was made for mine."

I help her out of her jeans and simple cotton panties, trying not to rush despite the urgency pounding through my veins. When she's finally naked, spread out before me like an offering to a god I stopped praying to, I pause just to memorize the sight.

Every curve. Every hollow. The way her chest rises and falls with quick, nervous breaths. The way her hands flutter at her sides, not quite covering herself but clearly fighting the urge.

"Don't hide from me," I murmur, settling between her legs. "Never hide from me."

Her scent hits me like a physical force—vanilla and arousal and something uniquely Amani that makes my mouth water. When I press the first kiss to her inner thigh, she nearly levitates off the bed.

"Oh God," she gasps. "Dimitri, what are you—"

"Shh." I look up at her from between her thighs, letting her see the hunger in my eyes. "Let me worship you properly. Let me show you how a man treats his woman."

The first swipe of my tongue has her crying out, hands fisting in the sheets hard enough to pull them loose. She tastes like heaven and sin, like everything I never knew I was starving for. I use my tongue and lips and teeth to map every sensitive spot, learning what makes her gasp, what makes her moan, what makes those thick lashes flutter shut in bliss. When I slide one finger inside her tight heat, she nearly comes off the bed.

"So fucking tight," I growl against her clit. "Like a damn glove."

I work her slowly, carefully, adding a second finger when she starts moving against my hand. Her body resists at first, muscles clenching against the intrusion, but I'm patient. I've waited this long; I can wait a little longer. "Relax, angel," I murmurbetween long licks. "Let me in. Let me make you feel good." She whimpers, thighs trembling on either side of my head, but gradually her body accepts the gentle invasion. I curl my fingers, searching for that spot that will—

"Dimitri!" She screams my name, back bowing off the bed. "Oh God, what was that?"

"That's what I'm going to hit with my cock," I tell her bluntly, pumping my fingers against that spot again. "Over and over until you can't remember your own name." Her inner muscles flutter around my fingers, and I know she's close. I seal my mouth over her clit, sucking hard while working her with my fingers, and she explodes.

The sound she makes—half scream, half sob, all mine—nearly makes me come untouched. Her body convulses, clenching rhythmically around my fingers, damn near breaking my fingers off. I ignore the irony and work her through it until she's begging me to stop. But I'm not done with her yet. I crawl up her body, settling between her thighs as she comes down from her high. My cock throbs against her slick entrance, and I have to grit my teeth against the urge to slam inside her. Every instinct screams at me to claim, to take,to breed. To plant my seed in her womb and care for it as it blooms.

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