Page 65 of Forced Plus-Size Bride of the Bratva

She answers me with her body, giving herself over completely, no hesitation now. No fear.

Only us.

We move together like we’ve done this a thousand times—like fate wrote it into our bones before we ever met.

The coil in my gut tightens as she trembles around me, her body clenching in frantic, helpless spasms. Her nails rake down my back, her cries sharper, breathier.

I don’t slow.

I pound into her through it, dragging out her release, forcing her to feel every second of it.

She breaks beneath me with a sob, and I follow, spilling into her with a hoarse groan, my body locking tight as pleasure tears through me.

For a long moment, the only sound in the room is our ragged breathing, the creak of the mattress beneath our bodies.

I don’t move. I don’t roll away. Instead I stay, holding my weight over her, breathing her in.

Her hand—trembling, soft—traces lazy lines across my back, neither of us ready to let go.

The silence feels different now. Heavy.

Alina stares at the ceiling, wide-eyed and stunned, her face a mirror of everything inside her she can’t yet name.

Tonight, she’s given me everything.

The room is still thick with the heat of what just happened.

Our bodies are tangled together on the bed, skin sticking to skin, the sheets shoved down around our ankles in a useless heap. The air smells of sweat, sex, and something heavier—something I don’t want to name.

Alina doesn’t move.

She lies beneath me, chest rising and falling in uneven rhythm, her eyes half closed but still awake. Still aware. Her fingers, which had been clenching the sheets just moments ago, relax slowly, tracing faint, unconscious patterns along my spine like she doesn’t know she’s doing it.

Neither of us speaks.

There’s no need for words. Words would only shatter the fragile silence we’ve built—would turn what happened into something smaller, something that could be twisted or denied. Neither of us wants that. Not yet.

I shift just enough to ease my weight off her, careful not to lose the heat of her body against mine. She lets out a soft breath, one that brushes against my neck, and I feel her muscles finally begin to loosen under me. Like some part of her—maybe the part she fights hardest—is surrendering all over again.

Slowly, without thinking, I pull the rumpled covers over us.

It’s not tenderness.

It’s instinct.

She turns slightly, pressing her cheek against my chest. Her hair fans across my skin, tickling lightly, and I feel another deep, dangerous pull low in my gut. I force myself to stay still, to just breathe with her.

Minutes pass. Maybe longer. The only sounds are the muted cheers of the men still celebrating outside.

Alina’s breathing slows, becoming deeper, steadier.

Sleep drags at the edges of my mind too, heavy and insistent. I resist it at first. Habit. I’m not used to sleeping beside anyone. Not used to this kind of vulnerability. I should get up. I should leave her here and return to the night, to the violence and certainty waiting beyond the bedroom walls.

Instead, I stay.

I tighten my arm around her waist, anchoring her against me. Her body shifts slightly, fitting more perfectly into the curve of mine, like she was meant to be there all along.

Her hand flattens against my chest.

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