Page 21 of Pregnant with Bratva Twins
“Please, don’t stop…” she begs, voice shaking, pleasure crackling through her.
I slide a hand down, thumb pressing hard on her clit, working her in time with my thrusts. Her back bows off the bed, heels digging into my back. I fuck her through every whimper, every gasp, until her whole body tightens, trembling on the edge.
“That’s it,” I urge, my voice harsh and possessive. “Come for me again.”
She shatters around me, body writhing, muscles milking my cock as she cries out my name. Her release is messy and raw, every inch of her slick and pulsing beneath me. I don’t let up. I keep fucking her, riding her through every aftershock, every helpless moan.
When I can’t hold back any longer, I drive deep, burying myself to the hilt, my own orgasm tearing through me. I groan into her shoulder, hips jerking as I fill her, hot and thick, marking her from the inside out.
We collapse together, tangled in sweat-soaked sheets, limbs heavy and shaking. For a long moment, I don’t move, just listen to her heartbeat racing against my chest, feel the heat of her breath on my skin.
When I finally pull out, I look down at her, flushed and panting, hair a wild halo on the pillow. I brush my thumb over her swollen lips, satisfaction flooding every inch of me.
“Good girl,” I murmur, pressing a final, claiming kiss to her mouth. “Mine.”
Afterward, the room is thick with the scent of sex and sweat, the sheets tangled beneath our bodies. Jessa lies sprawled against my chest, her breath slowing, lashes fanned across flushed cheeks.
Her skin is marked everywhere by me. Red at her throat, bruises blooming on her hips, bite prints rising along her shoulder. I trace a finger over them, possessive, knowing exactly what I’ve done.
She sighs in her sleep, curling closer, one arm flung over my stomach. I watch her, mind churning. It shouldn’t have happened. This was meant to be about control, about reminding her who she belongs to and making sure she never crosses the Bratva again.
She’s a liability, a witness who knows too much. The right move is to cut her loose, permanently. That’s what the old men would demand. That’s what my father would have done.
Except, the feel of her lingers in my hands, the memory of her body trembling under mine burning in my mind. I can’t stop thinking about her, about the way she looked at me as I fucked her—open, hungry, surrendering completely and yet never losing that spark of resistance.
She’s fire and ice, a danger I want to wrap my fists around and keep close, no matter the cost.
I tell myself it’s a mistake, that I’ll regret it, that this softness is a weakness I can’t afford. But as I watch her sleep, chest rising and falling in time with my own breath, all I can think about is keeping her.
I want her here, in my bed, in my house, marked by me and no one else. I want to see that innocence break every time I touch her. I want her to know that she’s mine… and that she can never leave, no matter how hard she tries.
For the first time in years, I feel the future shift beneath me, dangerous and unknown. Jessa is a threat to everything I’ve built. Now that I’ve had her, the only thing I want is to keep her. Fully. Permanently.
Chapter Eleven - Jessa
It’s been days, but the memory refuses to leave me. Every morning I wake tangled in those expensive sheets, sheets that still smell like him, my thighs sore in a way I can’t admit, my skin hypersensitive as if his hands have left invisible fingerprints.
I remember the way he moved inside me—slow at first, then hungry, unrelenting—claiming my body until I could barely breathe, until pleasure and fear had melted into the same overwhelming tide. I hated him for what he did. I hate myself for wanting him again.
Markian hasn’t come to me since that night. Not a word, not a touch. Sometimes I hear his footsteps in the halls, his voice barking orders behind closed doors, always in Russian. Sometimes I catch a glimpse of him from a window, standing on the drive with men in dark suits.
The door to my room stays shut and untouched, the world narrowing to the rooms I’m allowed to roam, the servants’ careful silence, the pounding of my own heart.
Maybe he’s caught up in Bratva business, or maybe he’s simply done with me. That thought makes my chest hurt in a way I wish I could ignore.
Part of me wants him gone forever, wants to reclaim whatever part of myself he took that night. Another part aches for the sound of his voice, for the heat of his hands.
I keep telling myself it’s only trauma, only loneliness, only the aftershock of being so completely possessed. I try to hate him, I try to hate what he made me feel… but I still wake at midnight, hands pressed between my thighs, chasing the ghost of a release that only he’s managed to give me.
It’s raining outside, soft and persistent, drumming against the windows of my room. I sit curled in the velvet chair, reading the same page of a borrowed book over and over. I haven’t seen another soul all morning. Just when I convince myself I’ll never see him again, a soft knock interrupts my thoughts.
The maid—Alina, I think—is waiting in the hall, her hands folded neatly in front of her. “Miss Whitaker, lunch is ready. Mr. Sharov is waiting for you in the dining room.”
I freeze, heart leaping. Dread, excitement, shame, all tangled up inside me. My hands go clammy as I brush down my skirt and try to school my features into something neutral. “Thank you,” I murmur, my voice small.
I follow her down the grand, winding staircase, my feet silent on the carpet. Each step feels heavier than the last. The house is quiet except for the hush of rain and the distant chime of a clock. When I reach the landing, I catch my reflection in the gilded mirror: hair pulled back, face pale but composed, lips pressed into a stubborn line. I don’t look like the girl he undressed and ruined. I try to hold on to that.
The dining room is enormous, designed for parties and power. There’s a chandelier overhead, throwing light onto a table that could seat twenty, but only two places are set. Markian sits at the far end, back straight, hands resting lightly on the linen. His suit is black today, his hair immaculate, expression utterly unreadable.
