Page 54 of Innocent Plus-Size Bride of the Bratva
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The night is silent, the kind of silence that rings in your ears. Every lamp in the house is off, but moonlight spills across the polished floors, lighting my way.
I don’t remember making the decision. I don’t remember changing out of my pajamas and pulling on a silk robe.
I only know that my feet move without my permission, carrying me down the hall to his door. I think I’m just restless, that I need answers, that I want to prove I’m not afraid… but as soon as I reach for the handle and turn it, I know it’s something deeper. Something I can’t admit to myself.
I don’t knock. I just open the door and step inside.
Adrian stands by the window, arms folded, his black shirt rumpled and sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms. He’s a shadow cut against a darker night, jaw tense, eyes lost in the city below. For a moment, he doesn’t notice me, or maybe he does and won’t look. But when the door closes behind me, he turns, gaze meeting mine across the distance.
He doesn’t ask why I’m here. He doesn’t say a word.
I don’t explain. I don’t have the words for it. I cross to the bed, letting the silk robe slip off my shoulders, sliding down my arms. The fabric pools at my feet, leaving me bare in the pale light. I do it slowly, deliberately, challenging him with every inch of skin I reveal. I want him to stop me, to say something, to make this about anger or revenge or closure.
He just watches, hunger and hurt and something unspoken flickering across his face.
I crawl onto the bed, knees sinking into the mattress, heart pounding in my throat. The sheets are cool against my skin, smelling faintly of his cologne and something wilder. I lie back, watching him, my breath shallow.
It’s an invitation and a test and a confession, all tangled together.
He doesn’t hesitate. He crosses the room in three silent strides, his hands already at his shirt, yanking it over his head. He’s all sharp lines and muscle, the scars on his torso pale in the moonlight.
Adrian kicks off his trousers and joins me on the bed, pinning me with his weight. There are no gentle words, no slow caresses. He kisses me like he’s drowning, teeth scraping my lips, his mouth hard and desperate.
His hands are everywhere: rough on my hips, greedy on my breasts, squeezing, claiming, thumbs circling my nipples until I arch and gasp. He bites my shoulder, sucks hard enough to mark me, and when I reach for his hair, he groans into my skin. The sheets tangle beneath us, twisted as our bodies.
He pulls back just enough to look at me, his eyes wild and dark, searching for something: fear, forgiveness, surrender. I give him none of it. I bare my throat, daring him to take whatever he wants.
He grabs my wrists, fingers tight but careful all the same. My bandaged arm aches dully, and Adrian is careful not to nudge it even as he moves me into position. He pins my hands above my head, and I feel myself clench around nothing, aching for him, for the pain and the power and the reckless need I can’t hide.
“Is this what you want?” he grits out, voice hoarse, his cock hot and heavy against my thigh. “After everything?”
“Yes,” I whisper, raw, defiant.
That’s all it takes. He lines himself up, rubs the thick head against my slick entrance, then drives into me in one long, unyielding thrust. I gasp, legs wrapping tight around his waist, heels digging into his back as he fills me: deep, brutal, claiming. My body opens for him, my breath stolen. He pulls back and slams into me again, harder, setting a punishing rhythm.
There’s no mercy. Only this. The slap of skin, the burn of friction, his mouth on mine and his hands fisted in my hair. He fucks me like he’s angry, like he’s grieving, like he can pound every lie and secret out of my body and replace it with the truth of him. His teeth find my jaw, my collarbone, my breast. He bites and sucks until I’m marked, branded, his.
My own nails score his back, hips rocking up to meet every brutal thrust. I want to hurt him. I want to please him. I want to come so hard I forget every name but his. He pins my wrists with one hand and slides the other down, fingers circling my clit, rubbing fast, relentless.
“Adrian—” I choke, thighs shaking, the edge coming at me fast.
He bites my ear. “You come for me, Talia. Now.”
I shatter, the orgasm ripping through me, hot and wild, my body bucking up against his. He doesn’t let up, fucking me through it, grinding into me, watching my face as I fall apart.
“Again,” he growls, letting my wrists go, both hands gripping my hips, dragging me down onto him, slamming into me harder, deeper.
He flips me onto my stomach, yanks my hips up, and thrusts back in. I cry out, face pressed to the mattress, the angle rough and perfect, his hand tangling in my hair. He pounds into me, each stroke sending a shockwave through my core, my breasts swaying with every slap of his hips.
His fingers dig bruises into my flesh, his other hand coming around to toy with my clit again, working me toward the edge a second time.
“Fuck, Adrian, please—” I sob, tears streaking my cheeks, not from pain but from the intensity, the need, the overwhelming relief of being ruined and remade in the same breath.
He grunts, fucking me harder, deeper, until I come again, squeezing him so tight I hear him curse. He shudders, then pulls out, flips me onto my back, and drives in again, face-to-face, his mouth on mine, tongues tangling, sweat slick between us.
He slows, the thrusts growing desperate, needy, each one deeper than the last. He grabs my thigh, throws it over his hip, and buries himself to the hilt, his forehead pressed to mine.
