Page 22 of Bred By the Masked BRATVA
“Queen,” I groan, pounding up into her now, meeting every thrust. “My queen. The only woman who could ever rule me.”
The bed shakes beneath us. My cock slams deep inside her, over and over, until she’s screaming, grinding, gasping my name.
“Let me see you play with those perfect tits,” I growl out from between clenched teeth, Barely keeping myself restrained.
She obeys, lifting her hands and squeezing the juicy mounds until the flesh fills the spaces between her fingers. Then she pulls and tweaks her dusky pink nipples and her gaze softens with pleasure.
“That’s it,” I say, brushing her hands away and taking her nipples in my own fingers. The hard pebbled peaks are so enticing as I roll them between my thumb and finger, and I rear up to take one into my mouth, sucking and licking until her moans are so intense I know she won’t last much longer.
Reluctantly, I release her and lie back down, wanting a full view of her as she comes undone on top of me.
“That’s it. little dove, take my cock. And when you’re full of my seed and round with my heir I’ll suck those juicy mounds dry.” I lift my hands back to her tits, unable to hold back much longer. “I’ll make you come on my cock every day until it takes, until you know who you belong to.”
Her pace picks up, her moans are sobs as she desperately chases her orgasm. I drop one hand down and press against her clit with my thumb.
“That’s it, Natasha, show them all who rules this fucking world. Come on my cock like the queen you are.”
She arches, nails clawing into my chest, her climax tearing through her in waves. Her sobs shatter into a cry, her whole body clenching around me. My vision blurs, my teeth grit, and I slam her down harder, desperate to brand her from the inside out. I feel her tighten, her orgasm thundering through her, and the sight of it, Natasha, bare-faced and maskless, riding me like she was born for this throne, tears the release from me too.
My vision blurs as I grab her hips, slam her down hard, and spill inside her with a roar, holding her tight as I crown her cervix with my seed.
“Good girl,” I rasp, breath ragged.
Natasha
I’m limp against him, my cheek pressed to his chest, hair sticking to sweat-damp skin. His cock is still inside me, heavy, twitching, not fully soft, as if my body refuses to let him go. Every throb sends another little aftershock through me, reminding me I’m stretched, filled, claimed.
I should be panicking. I should be planning my escape. But instead I feel… safe. Worshipped. Wanted in a way I’ve never been before.
I’ve fought so hard for scraps, to be taken seriously in a world where men wrote the rules and locked the doors. And now here I am, wrapped around one of the most dangerous men alive, and it’s the first time I feel equal. Seen. Chosen.
I tilt my face up. He’s watching me, maskless, his dark eyes steady on mine. One big hand strokes my spine, the other still cradles my hip as though to keep me impaled on him.
“When the bell rings tomorrow,” he murmurs, voice deep and sure, “the masquerade ends. We leave together without our masks, and the Bratva sees who I’ve chosen.”
My breath catches. “And what does that mean? For me?”
“It means,” he says, slow, deliberate, “you stop being a guest. You stop being an observer. You step into the Bratva as my wife. My queen. The woman carrying my heir.”
The words should terrify me. But the way he says them makes something inside me melt.
“I can’t wait,” he growls, hand sliding down to cover my belly possessively, “to see you round with my child. To fuck you when you’re so full of me you ache. To taste your milk when your body makes it for me, sweet and hot on my tongue.”
A flush sears my skin. It’s filthy, obscene. And yet the thought of it makes my thighs tighten around him, a fresh pulse of heat sparking low in my belly.
His thumb strokes circles over my back. “Every man in that ballroom will know you’re mine. Every cousin who envies me, every senator in our pocket, every vulture waiting for me to fail. They’ll look at your swollen belly and know I already won.”
I swallow hard. “You make it sound like I’m a weapon.”
“You are,” he says simply. “The sharpest one I’ll ever wield. With you at my side, the stories you’ll write… the names you’ll drag into the light… they’ll fear you as much as they fear me. Maybe more.”
My throat goes dry. “You’d let me publish them?”
His smile curves, dark and possessive. “I’llfeedyou stories. I’ll give you judges on the take, senators owned by my father, police chiefs who sell themselves cheap. I’ll give you proof so sharp it cuts through every lie they ever told you.”
His cock twitches inside me at the same time his words land, and I can’t tell which makes me shiver harder, the promise of power or the filthy way he talks about my body.
He kisses my temple, then murmurs against my skin, “But every story you write, every truth you carry, will be written on my seed. On the heir you’ll give me. On the milk I’ll drink from your breasts when you’re heavy with me.”
