Page 12 of Claimed By the Masked BRATVA
I should feel smothered. Instead, I feel… anchored.
It’s terrifying.
I’ve never felt like this before. Not with the men I tried to date, not in fumbling college hookups that ended in disappointment and silence, not in any fantasy I allowed myself to indulge when the loneliness got too sharp. Those encounters were pale imitations of intimacy, going through the motions.
This was something else.
This was obliteration.
Sebastian took me apart piece by piece, stripped me down to bare nerves, and then filled me so completely that I’ll never forget the sensation. My body still remembers the stretch, the pounding rhythm, the raw ache of being claimed from the inside out. I’m sore, swollen, marked, and yet every time I shift I feel his release deep within me, and a thrill rushes through me so hard it almost makes me dizzy.
He did this.
He ruined me.
And the most frightening part is that I let him.
I glance up at him. He’s propped on one elbow now, still inside me, eyes dark and unreadable behind the plain black mask. His gaze never leaves my face, watching every tremble, every twitch, as though memorizing me.
“You’re quiet,” he says softly, voice rough from exertion.
I swallow, my throat dry. “I don’t know what to say.”
He smirks faintly. “Then don’t say anything. Just feel.”
As if I could do anything else. My body hums with sensation, my thighs damp, my pulse still erratic. The scientist in me wants to categorize every reaction, chart it on a graph, dissect why his words, his hands, his cock could unravel me so completely. But the woman in me, the one who just surrendered and screamed and shattered, knows there’s no formula for this.
There’s only him.
He brushes a strand of damp hair from my forehead, tucking it behind my ear with surprising gentleness. The same man who pinned me down and fucked me into oblivion now touches me like I’m something precious.
It shouldn’t make sense. None of this should make sense.
“You’re trembling,” he murmurs, his thumb stroking along my jaw.
“I can’t seem to stop.”
“Good.” His mouth curves in satisfaction. “That’s how it should be. Wrecked. Marked. Mine.”
The word hits me like a shockwave. Mine.
I should bristle. I should push back against the possessive certainty in his tone. But instead my body clenches again, another wave of aftershocks gripping him inside me. His groanis low, primal, and he thrusts shallowly, as if to remind me I’m still impaled on him, still taken.
Heat flushes my cheeks. “You’re insatiable.”
“You have no idea.” He kisses me then, deep and claiming, as though he needs to taste my words before they’re even finished forming. When he pulls back, his eyes are fierce. “One night will never be enough. You understand that, don’t you?”
The intensity steals my breath. He means it. He’s not promising dinner dates or a casual fling. He’s declaring war on my future.
“I…” My voice falters. “I don’t know what this is.”
“It’s everything.” His hand presses against my stomach, firm, possessive. “It’s the start of the only thing that matters.”
Tears sting the backs of my eyes. Not sadness. Not fear. Something bigger, messier, harder to name. For the first time in years, I feel seen, really seen, stripped down past politeness and pretense and logic. He looks at me like I’m the most important discovery of his life, and the weight of that gaze both terrifies and exalts me.
He shifts, finally pulling out, and I bite back a whimper at the loss. My body aches instantly, empty, as though it’s already forgotten how to exist without him inside me. He watches me closely, reading the reaction, and satisfaction gleams in his eyes.
“Already missing me,” he murmurs. “Good. That’s how it should be.”
