Page 64 of Bratva Daddy
"Most women aren't me," I said, kissing each knuckle, tasting soap and copper. "And most men aren't you."
"No," he agreed, voice dropping to that dangerous register. "They're not."
His hand found my throat, not squeezing but owning, thumb pressed against my pulse that hammered rabbit-quick.
"You watched me kill them," he said, not a question.
"Yes."
"You watched me enjoy it."
"Yes."
His hand left my throat, fingers sliding between my legs with devastating accuracy. The first touch made my knees buckle—I was swollen, sensitive, desperate.
"Fuck," he breathed, fingers sliding through wetness that seemed to surprise him despite his command to see it. "You're dripping."
"Always am when you’re near," I admitted.
He slid two fingers inside me without warning, and I cried out, grabbing his shoulders for balance. His other hand returned to my hair, pulling my head back to expose my throat.
"Please," I gasped, not sure what I was begging for.
"Please what?" He added a third finger, stretching me, but kept the rhythm frustratingly slow. "Tell me what you need."
"You," I managed, hips rolling against his hand, seeking friction he wouldn't give. "Inside me. Need to feel you alive, need—"
He pulled his fingers out, spun me around to face the mirror, and bent me over the counter in one fluid motion. I heard his zipper, felt him pressing against me, and then he was pushing inside with one brutal thrust that made me scream.
"This what you need?" he growled, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back in. "Need to be fucked by me?"
"Yes," I sobbed, meeting his eyes in the mirror. My palms slipped on marble, trying to brace against his assault. "Yes, Daddy, please—"
His hand tangled in my hair, pulling my head back at an angle that made my spine arch, changing how he hit inside me. Every thrust pressed against that spot that made stars explode behind my eyelids. The counter edge dug into my hips hard enough to bruise, and I loved it, loved that I'd wear his violence for days.
"Yours," I said, then moaned when he reached around to find my clit, rubbing circles that had no mercy in them.
"Say it again."
"Yours, Daddy, yours—"
"That's right," he snarled, and I felt him swell inside me, knew he was close. "Mine to protect. Mine to fuck. Mine to fill."
The orgasm hit me like a physical blow—back bowing, vision whiting out, screaming his name loud enough that everyone in the building would know exactly what was happening. Would know that I belonged to him in every way that mattered.
He followed immediately, driving deep and holding there while he came, marking me inside where no one could see but we'd both know. His teeth found my shoulder through thesweater, biting down hard enough that I'd wear that mark too, that evidence of claiming.
We stayed like that for long moments, both breathing hard, bodies still joined. In the mirror, we looked destroyed—his chest still marked with bruises and my blood from the bite, my hair wild from his hands, both of us wrecked in the best way.
"I love you too," I said to his reflection, the words I hadn't been able to say before. "I love all of you. Even the parts that should terrify me. Especially those parts."
He pulled out slowly, turned me around to face him. His hands framed my face with gentleness that seemed impossible after that violence—both the killing and the sex.
"You're insane," he said softly, wonder in his voice.
"Probably," I agreed. "But I'm your kind of insane."
"Exactly mine," he confirmed, and kissed me with enough tenderness to break my heart.
