Page 38 of Bratva Bride
He’s already hard, thick and flushed, and when I wrap my hand around him, his breath shudders out. I stroke him slowly, teasing at first, then lower my head and lick the bead of precum at his tip, swirling my tongue around the head before taking him deeper. His hand finds my hair, not guiding, just holding, as I suck him slowly, letting him fill my mouth, feeling him twitch against my tongue.
He groans, hips shifting, and I hollow my cheeks, bobbing my head in a steady rhythm, stroking what I can’t take with my hand. I love the weight of him, the taste, the rough sounds he makes as I work him deeper, then pull back and tease the sensitive underside.
I take him deeper again, swallowing around him, then suck harder, using my tongue to tease every ridge and vein. He grits out my name, his hips starting to move, barely controlled. I love how wrecked he looks, how undone. When I feel him getting close, I slow down, wanting to stretch this moment, but his grip in my hair tightens.
“Enough,” he rasps, voice almost broken. “Come here.”
I climb over him, knees braced on either side of his hips, feeling him hard and slick between my thighs. His hands grip my waist, guiding me down until he slides inside, thick and deep, the stretch making me shiver. I sink onto him slowly, savoring every inch until I’m seated flush against his hips, completely full, a sweet ache pulsing through me.
He groans, hands sliding up my sides to cup my breasts, thumbs brushing over sensitive nipples. He sits up, strong arms circling my waist, mouth finding my throat as I start to move. I rock my hips, rolling in slow, deep circles, feeling him press right where I want it.
His lips trail along my neck, then down, taking my nipple into his mouth and sucking hard, teeth scraping, tongue flicking. I gasp, my fingers buried in his hair, holding him close.
I lift and lower myself over him, finding a rhythm that makes us both moan, his hands guiding me, mouth moving from one breast to the other, sucking until the skin is flushed and damp. I ride him harder, hips snapping, the sounds of our bodies slick and hungry, the bed creaking beneath us.
He buries his face in my chest, groaning my name, his hands sliding down to grip my ass, squeezing, urging me faster.
I brace my hands on his shoulders, leaning back so he can watch me, watch the way I take him, every roll of my hips making my clit grind against him just right. His eyes are dark, hungry, fixed on the place where we’re joined.
I gasp and shudder, every nerve lit up, chasing the rush building low in my belly. He moves one hand between us, thumb rubbing tight circles over my clit as I ride him. The pleasure spikes and I cry out, thighs shaking, hips jerking as the orgasm crashes through me.
He groans, burying his face in my neck, hips driving up into me, fucking me through every pulse and aftershock until he follows me over the edge, his body tensing beneath me as he spills inside, clutching me tight.
We collapse together, tangled, sweat soaked, still joined, breaths uneven and desperate, the heat between us lingering long after the last shiver fades.
We stay tangled together for a long time, his chest warm beneath my cheek, his hand tracing lazy circles along my spine. My heartbeat finally slows, the heat between us settling intosomething softer. He kisses my shoulder, lips gentle now, and for a few minutes there is only breath and skin, the quiet after a storm.
Eventually, he shifts beneath me, brushing hair from my face. “Did your friend ever figure out anything about that code?” he asks.
For a moment I just look at him, searching his face in the low light. I think about the conversation at brunch, the wives’ gossip, the numbers on the key card that match the private suites by the port. I know exactly what those numbers unlock.
But something holds me back. Maybe it’s the memory of Anya’s hand on his arm. Maybe it’s the secrets he still carries, the way he lied about where he was, about who he was with. Maybe I just need to keep this small piece of knowledge for myself, a way to stay ahead, or just to keep him safe—at least until I’m sure what he’ll do with it.
I press a slow kiss to his jaw and shake my head. “Not yet. He’s still looking into it.”
He studies me for a second, searching for something, but I keep my face calm, my voice steady. After a moment he just nods, fingers brushing my hip.
“Let me know if you hear anything,” he says quietly, before pulling me close again, his breath warm at my temple.
I rest my head on his chest, eyes closing, heart pounding with the secret I’m keeping—one more lie added to all the others, woven in with the warmth and the sweat and the way his body still feels like home.
Even as I lie there with his arms around me, my mind won’t quiet. What Kira said at the brunch keeps circling back—In our world it’s normal when our husbands cheat, as long as they’re discreet.The way she looked at me when she said it. The way I saw Anya’s hand on his, and he didn’t pull away.
I hadn’t planned it when I slipped into the lingerie, hadn’t thought it through past the ache in my chest and the knot of doubt in my stomach. But a part of me needed to see. Tofeelthat I still have him, that whatever he’s hiding from me hasn’t changed what we are behind closed doors.
So I kissed him first. I let my hands roam, let my body do the asking, even as my heart held back. I needed to know if he still wants me like that—if he still belongs to me in ways that matter.
And when he moaned my name, when he gripped my hips like he couldn’t bear to let go, it felt like a small win. A selfish one maybe. But in this world, with everything spinning out of control, I’ll take what I can.
The next morning, I’m at the apartment Arman secured, gathered with the team. The space is quiet except for the low hum of conversation and the clink of coffee cups. The curtains are half-drawn, letting in the sunlight as Dima sits cross-legged on the floor, laptop open, the key Konstantin found held between two fingers.
He squints at it again. “Still working on it,” he says, not looking up. “But based on the material, cut, and etching—it’s probably from a private suite. High-end. Not the kind of thing you find at a motel.”
I take a breath and sip my coffee, letting the warmth anchor me. “Actually,” I say, setting the cup down, “I think I know where it’s from.”
Dima glances up. So does Rifat. Katya straightens in her chair.
“Yesterday,” I begin, “at the brunch with the Bratva wives, a few of them mentioned this place. Varna Quay Suites. It’s a private waterfront club—very exclusive. They don’t go there themselves, but their husbands do. It’s where deals get made.”
