Page 16 of BRATVA'S Poisoner Bride
Then he slowly rises over me positioning himself at my entrance, and pauses, his forehead pressing against mine.
"Tell me you want this," he demands, his voice strained, and I nod frantically, wrapping my legs around his waist to pull him closer.
He enters me slowly, inch by inch, stretching me in a way that's painful at first but quickly turns to exquisite fullness. I bite my lip to stifle a cry. He stills, giving me time to adjust, whispering words of praise and possession in my ear. One of his hands is stroking my hip until the discomfort fades into pure bliss.
Then he starts to move, thrusting deep and steady, each stroke hitting places I didn't know existed, building a rhythm that has me clinging to him. His need fuels every motion, his lips crashing against mine as he murmurs how I'm his now, how he'll never let me go. I lose myself in the sensation, the coil in mybelly tightening until it snaps, waves of ecstasy crashing over me again, stronger, but shorter this time.
“Yes,zolotse,” he grunts. “Your virgin pussy is mine now. Only mine.”
I open my eyes to find his, hooded with arousal, looking into mine.
“Say it,zolotse,” his hips piston faster as I hold on, ignoring the way I’m throbbing with sensitivity. “Say it!” he demands.
“yours,” I say, expecting it to come out as a breathy pant, not the screamed confession it actually sounded like. But in saying it, something inside me cracks open. I begin to meet him, thrust for thrust, lifting my hips and slamming against him hard enough that I feel his balls crush against me.
His jaw clenches and I say it again and again, ignoring the sensitivity that’s turning into an ache.
“I’m yours, Diomid, every part of me.”
His pace stutters and falters as he throws his head back and groans my name like a prayer. His whole length seems to flex inside me, jolting against the front of my body and making me whimper.
When his head tips forward, his face is completely relaxed. He is still twitching inside of me, both of us sensitive now as he slowly withdraws and collapses beside me. We’re a tangle of limbs and sweat-slicked skin. He drapes his arm over my waist, pulling me close as our breaths slow.
I turn to look at him, seeing the depth of his fixation in the way his eyes refuse to leave my face. It's overwhelming, this connection we've forged in the heat of passion, but as I nestle into his side, feeling his heartbeat sync with mine, I realize I don't want to fight it. I feel truly claimed, not as property, but as an equal in this dangerous dance we've begun.
Diomid
The quiet that follows is a deep and heavy kind of stillness, like the room itself is holding its breath to avoid breaking whatever fragile thing has just begun between us.
Elizabeth lies flush against me, her cheek resting over my heart, her breath warm as it ghosts across my skin. I can still taste her on my lips, still feel the imprint of her body tightening around mine. The sheets are tangled beneath us, a chaotic testament to the hunger we unleashed, and her hair spills across the pillow in wild dark waves, as though it too has given up pretending to be tame.
I brush the back of my fingers along her cheek, slow and reverent. She doesn’t pull away. That alone feels like a miracle.
“You’re quiet,” I murmur into her hair.
“I’m thinking,” she whispers back, though her voice sounds like she’s afraid thinking might ruin this. “Trying to understand what I’ve just done.”
I shift slightly so I can see her face. She doesn’t hide from my gaze and the honesty I find there is raw enough to cut. “Are you regretting it?” I ask.
Her gaze flickers over my mouth, down my throat, and back again before she answers. “No. But I think that’s the problem.”
Something fierce twists in my chest. Possession. Need. A hunger that gnaws at a deeper part of me than I’m used to.
“You don’t have to understand it,” I tell her. “Just feel it.”
Her lips part around a breath that shakes slightly, as if emotion is something unfamiliar on her tongue. “That’s new for me,” she admits. “I’ve always been taught to ignore what I feel. Or hide it.”
“Why?” The question comes out low and dangerous, because I already know I won’t like the answer.
“For survival,” she says. Simple. Brutal.
I take her hand and thread our fingers together, letting the contact speak the rest. “I see you,” I say quietly, “and I’m not going to hurt you.”
Her eyes soften in a way I don’t think she intended to show me. Vulnerability flickers there, the kind of hurt a person learns to carry silently. She is a woman built from secrets and survival and quiet rebellion. I’m finding I want to understand everything about her.
“You don’t think I’m a monster?” she asks.
“No,” I answer without hesitation. “I think you did what you needed to do.”
