Page 113 of Bratva Bidder

My clit throbs from the pressure, and I chase it, grinding deeper, faster. I start to pant, the wave building fast. His cock hits that spot inside me just right, again and again, and I’m close—right there, right at the edge?—

“Fuck—” I gasp. “Don’t move. Just let me?—”

I come with a sharp cry, thighs trembling, my body pulsing around him, clutching him tight. The orgasm rolls through me in hot waves, and I ride it out, hips slowing but never stopping.

And that’s when he snaps.

His grip tightens, and in a blur of movement, he flips me onto my back, never pulling out. He drives into me hard, deep, grinding his hips down like he’s trying to get even deeper.

I cry out again, legs wrapping around him, hands clawing at his back.

“So fucking wet,” he growls against my neck. “You were made for this.”

He fucks me like he means to erase everything we can’t control. Like if he thrusts deep enough, hard enough, it’ll push back time. Change the outcome. Save us.

I arch into him, moaning his name, clinging to him like he’s the only solid thing left in the world.

When he comes, he groans deep in his chest, burying his face in my neck, cock pulsing as he spills inside me, thick and hot.

We lie there for a few moments—his chest rising and falling beneath me, my fingers tracing lazy patterns along the edge of his collarbone. My thighs are trembling, sore in the best way, my body humming from the force of everything we just did.

But he’s still hard. Still inside me.

And when I shift slightly, I feel him twitch.

His hands slide down to my hips. “You done?” he murmurs, voice gravel-rough.

I lift my head, smirk against his jaw. “Not even close.”

He rolls me over again—slow this time—settling me on my stomach, my cheek pressed into the pillow. I let out a breath as I feel him drag his palm down the curve of my spine, over the dip of my lower back, and between my legs.

“You’re soaked,” he says, voice thick with heat. “You didn’t even slow down.”

I spread my legs for him, hips tilting back. “So do something about it.”

He groans, deep and rough, then pushes back inside me—from behind now, slow and deliberate. The angle is different. Deeper. He braces one hand beside my head, the other gripping my hip,holding me exactly where he wants me as he fucks into me from behind.

Every thrust hits hard, angled to make me feel every inch of him.

I moan into the sheets, grinding back against him, the sound of skin on skin sharp and obscene in the quiet room. His fingers dig into my hips, then slide around to my front, finding my clit again. He rubs tight, hard circles, fucking me faster, dirtier.

“Say my name,” he demands.

I do—again and again—until I’m coming for the third time, hips stuttering, legs shaking.

But he’s not done. He pulls out and flips me onto my back, hooking my legs over his shoulders. His cock slides back into me in one smooth thrust and I scream—yes, just like that, every nerve lit up again.

This position splits me open.

He fucks me hard, deep, his hands braced on either side of my head. I claw at his back, my nails dragging down the sweat-slicked muscle, legs trembling with every impact.

He leans in and sucks one of my nipples into his mouth, tongue circling, teeth grazing, then switches to the other—licking and sucking like he’s trying to make me come just from that.

And it’s working.

My clit throbs, even without him touching it, just from the stretch, the grind, the rhythm of his hips.

He slows, kisses me again—deep and messy—and murmurs, “Turn around.”