Page 12 of Hunted By the Masked BRATVA
I lean in, my mouth replacing my fingers, tongue swirling around her nipple before I suck gently, then harder, drawing out a moan from her that vibrates through my chest. Her hands tangle in my hair, pulling me closer, urging me on. I oblige, switching to the other side while my free hand trails lower, over the curve of her stomach, and dipping beneath the edge of her panties. She's wet already, slick and ready, and the discovery makes my cock strain against my pants, aching for release.
"Konstantin," she whispers, her voice laced with need, and it's all the encouragement I require. I slide my fingers through her folds, finding that sensitive bundle of nerves and circling it with firm pressure, watching her face relax in pleasure.
She bucks against my hand, her hips grinding in rhythm with my movements, and I add a finger inside her, then another, curling them to hit that spot that makes her cry out. The sounds she makes are intoxicating, raw and unrestrained, fueling the fire that's consuming me.
I kiss my way up her neck, nipping at her pulse point, tasting the rapid beat of her heart as I pump my fingers faster, my thumb never leaving her clit. She's trembling now, close to the edge, and I want to push her over it, to feel her come undone around me.
"Let go, milaya," I murmur against her ear, my voice rough with desire. "I've got you."
She shatters then, her body clenching around my fingers, a wave of wetness coating my hand as she moans my name like a prayer. I hold her through it, my arm around her waist keeping her upright as the aftershocks ripple through her. When her eyes flutter open, hazy and satisfied, I withdraw my hand and bring my fingers to my lips, tasting her essence, sweet and musky, while she watches with parted lips.
I shrug out of my jacket, my shirt following quickly, buttons popping in my haste. Her hands explore my chest, tracing the scars that mirror her own in their violence, and it feels right, like we're two broken pieces fitting together in this moment. I undo my belt, freeing myself, and she reaches down, wrapping her fingers around my length, stroking with a confidence that nearly buckles my knees.
Her legs wrap around my waist as I lean over her. She guides me to her entrance, and I thrust in slowly at first, inch by inch, groaning at the tight heat enveloping me. She's perfect, gripping me like she was made for this, for me. I start moving, deep and steady, building a rhythm that has us both panting.
I bury my face in her neck, inhaling her scent, a mix of perfume and arousal that's driving me wild. She's meeting every thrust, her moans growing louder, and I feel her tightening around me again, pulling me closer to my own release.
Her nails dig into my back, urging me faster, harder, and I give her what she wants, pounding into her with abandon, the slap of our bodies echoing in the room. Sweat slicks our skin.
"Come with me," I rasp, my hand slipping between us to rub her clit once more. She cries out, her second orgasm crashing over her, and it's enough to send me tumbling after, spilling inside her with a guttural groan. Waves of pleasure rip through me until I'm spent, holding her close as we both come down from the high.
We stay like that for a while, breaths mingling, bodies entwined, the world outside forgotten in this stolen moment of connection. I finally pull out of her, and roll to the side. We’re both silent.
"You're staring," I say.
"You're worth staring at." Her gaze traces the tattoos that cover my chest and arms. The marks of my rank, my kills, my loyalty to the Reznikov’s. "Do they mean something?"
"They used to." I stroke my fingertips over her skin. "Now they just feel like another mask."
"Then take it off." Her hands slide up my chest. "Take everything off and just be here with me."
So I do.
I worship every inch of her skin, learning the sounds she makes when I find sensitive spots. Behind her ear. The curve of her breast. The inside of her thigh.
She's responsive, gasping and arching into my touch. Her hands explore me just as thoroughly, fingertips digging into my shoulders when I make her moan.
"Konstantin." My name is a plea.
"Tell me what you need."
"You. All of you. Now."
I pull her onto me, over me and settle between her thighs, the head of my cock pressing against her entrance.
I push inside her in one slow thrust, and we both groan at the sensation.
"Fuck," I breathe as I take her in. “You’re beautiful.”
We start to move, finding a rhythm that makes her head tip back.
This isn't gentle. Isn't sweet.
This is need and violence and two broken people trying to feel whole for just a few hours.
I hold her hips, and watch as her fingers find her clit. She cries out, her inner walls clenching around me.
"There," she gasps. "Right there, don't stop—"
