Page 7 of Claimed By the Masked BRATVA
When he finally breaks the kiss, I’m panting, dazed, trembling with need. His forehead rests against mine, his hand still at my throat, steady as a brand.
“You belong to me now,” he rasps.
The words should chill me. Instead, they set fire to the ache between my thighs. My body clenches with desperate, aching want.
And I realize, with bone-deep certainty, that my quiet, safe life has just ended.
Sebastian
The moment her lips part under mine, everything I thought I knew about hunger gets rewritten.
I intended control. A test. A measured kiss to confirm the heat in her eyes wasn’t my imagination. Instead, I find myself devouring her like a man who hasn’t eaten in years. She tastes of champagne and innocence, and the way she trembles against me drives me past the line of restraint.
She’s inexperienced. It’s obvious. Her lips move clumsily at first, not with the practiced precision of women who treat sex like a résumé skill, but with instinct. Raw, honest instinct. And it’s more arousing than anything I’ve ever known.
I can’t stop. I don’t want to stop.
When I finally tear myself away, my forehead pressed to hers, she’s panting, eyes wide and glassy. Her pulse hammers against the hand I still have curved lightly around her throat. She’s wrecked already, and I haven’t even started.
“You belong to me now,” I rasp.
The words aren’t strategy. They’re truth.
Her breath hitches, a sharp intake, and for a heartbeat I wait for her to argue, to laugh, to run. She doesn’t. Her pupils blow wide, her thighs press together, and I know. She felt it too.
“Come with me.”
I don’t give her time to think, don’t give myself time to second-guess. I take her hand and lead her out of the alcove, back through the ballroom. Heads turn, masks tilt, but no one steps in our way. No one ever does.
She follows without protest, her small hand clutched in mine, trembling but willing. Brave little thing.
The elevator doors glide open with a key fob, silent and discreet. Inside, mirrors multiply our reflections. Me dark and controlled, her flushed and wide-eyed, lips swollen from my kiss. I want to shatter the glass so we’re not forced to share the sight of her with anyone, even a reflection.
“Breathe,” I tell her.
“I am.”
“Liar.” My mouth curves, humorless. “You’re shaking.”
She glances down at her hand still tangled in mine. The tremor is visible all the way to her wrist. She bites her lip, embarrassed, and the sight makes my cock throb. That nervous honesty is like a drug.
The elevator hums upward. Every second stretches tight with anticipation. She shifts slightly, as though fighting the urge to fidget. I step closer, until our bodies brush without touching, and she stiffens like prey cornered.
“Last chance,” I murmur.
Her gaze flicks up to mine, startled. “For what?”
“For you to change your mind.”
She swallows hard, and the movement drags my attention to the elegant line of her throat, the rapid flutter of her pulse. She’s terrified. Aroused. Alive. And she’s still here.
“Do you want me to?” she asks.
I lower my voice. “No.”
The elevator chimes, doors whispering open to a private floor. I guide her into my suite, the carpet swallowing our footsteps, the city sprawled in lights beneath the wall of glass. The door seals behind us with a quiet finality.
We’re alone now. Truly alone.
