Page 16 of Claimed By the Masked BRATVA
He kisses me, cutting off the protest, his mouth claiming mine with brutal certainty. My body melts instantly, traitorously, the ache between my thighs flaring back to life. He lifts me effortlessly, pressing me against the glass, his cock hard against my stomach.
“Tell me you’ll stay,” he growls against my lips.
“I—”
“Tell me.”
His hand slides under the shirt I borrowed, fingers teasing between my thighs. My head falls back against the glass, a cry spilling out as pleasure overtakes reason. My body arches, begging before my mouth can form the words.
“Yes,” I gasp. “I’ll stay.”
He smirks, satisfied, and thrusts two fingers inside me, pumping slow and deep. “Good girl.”
The praise wrecks me. My legs tremble, my nails digging into his shoulders as he fucks me with his hand until I’m shaking, clenching, falling apart again against the glass with the city sprawling below.
When it’s over, he pulls his fingers from me carefully, his mouth brushing mine. “That’s settled, then. You’re not going anywhere.”
My brain screams at me to argue, to insist this is madness, that my life isn’t his to claim. But my body is still shuddering, soaked with proof of how easily he unravels me, how much I crave his touch.
I know I should walk away.
But I also know I won’t.
Not now. Maybe not ever.
Sebastian
I hate watching her get dressed.
Not because she isn’t beautiful in the act, because she is, bending to scoop up the ruined blue silk, cheeks flushed, hair still wild from my hands, but because every piece of fabric she puts between us feels like a wall. A barrier I never asked for and won’t accept.
She winces when she tries to shimmy into the dress, the zipper half-broken from my impatience last night. I smirk at the sight. “I warned you it wouldn’t survive me.”
She shoots me a glare over her shoulder, but it’s weak, softened by the way her lips curve at the edges. “It was borrowed.”
“From who?”
“My sister.”
I rise from the bed, tugging on my trousers, leaving my chest bare because I like the way her eyes catch on me before she forces them away. “Then I’ll replace it.”
She laughs, shaking her head as she fights with the stubborn zipper. “You can’t just throw money at everything, Sebastian.”
“Yes, I can,” I say simply, stepping behind her, sliding the zipper up with one smooth tug. I let my hands linger at her waist, my mouth close to her ear. “And if it keeps you in my bed, I will.”
Her breath hitches, but she doesn’t argue.
She moves to the table, where her mask lies discarded, and smooths her hair with trembling fingers. The mask looks delicate, fragile. She doesn’t. Not anymore. I ruined fragility in her last night, and I’ll never give it back.
“I have to get back to my life,” she says finally, her voice quiet but steady. “I can’t just… disappear into your world. I have responsibilities. A lab. Research deadlines.”
I study her. The way her spine stiffens when she speaks about work, the way her hands move with certainty when she gestures, the spark in her eyes when she forgets to be afraid. This is the Caitlyn who captivated me as much as her trembling did.
“What’s your project?” I ask.
Her head snaps toward me, surprised. No one’s asked, clearly. Not the men she’s dated, not the family she mentioned in fragments. Her lips part, then close again.
“You really want to know?”
