Page 99 of Bratva Bidder

She moans again. Louder.

I lift her off the desk without pulling out, wrapping her legs tight around me as I carry her to the wall beside the bookshelves and press her against it. She clings to me, her body wrapping around mine like she belongs there—because she does. She always has.

I fuck her harder, the slap of skin on skin echoing off the walls, the smell of sex thick in the air.

She starts to unravel again, and I feel it—tightening around me, pulsing, her breath hitching.

“Come for me,” I order, voice barely human.

She cries out, her body seizing in my arms, and I follow a heartbeat later, burying myself deep as I spill inside her.

We stay like that for a long moment, breathless and shaking, forehead to forehead, sweat-slicked and sated.

Her legs finally loosen around my waist, and I carry her back to the desk, setting her down gently.

“You okay?” I ask quietly, brushing her damp hair from her cheek.

She nods, lips curving into a lazy, satisfied smile. “You?”

I laugh under my breath, still trying to catch it. “Better than okay.”

She leans in, pressing a kiss to my chest, right over my heart.

21

NADYA

He’s still inside me,his chest rising and falling against mine as the last tremors fade. My legs feel like jelly, my skin slick with sweat, my heart pounding out of sync with his—but still tethered somehow. Still echoing his rhythm.

He brushes a kiss to my shoulder, then my collarbone, soft now. Worshipful. As if what we just did wasn’t frantic and raw and messy, but sacred. Like he’s afraid I’ll vanish if he doesn’t press his mouth to every inch of me before I slip away.

And God help me, I don’t want to slip away. I want to freeze time right here.

Then I feel him shift.

A slow drag, his cock slipping out of me with a slick pull that leaves me clenching instinctively, empty in a way that makes my face flush. He’s still thick, still hard enough to make me ache. I glance down and catch the glisten of us on him—his cock flushed, veined, wide at the crown and glistening at the tip, like he could take me again if I just said yes. Like he wants to.

He reaches for a tissue, wipes himself without ceremony, but not before I see the way his hand wraps easily around himself, like he’s barely half-hard now and still thick enough to make me breathless.

He doesn’t ask for more. Not out loud.

Instead, he leans in again, hand gentle on my cheek. “Come to bed with me.”

Just four words.

Soft. Quiet.

But heavy with everything he isn’t saying.

He isn’t talking about sleep. Not really. He’s inviting me into something deeper. Something that doesn’t vanish when the orgasm does.

And that’s exactly why I can’t go.

I smile—polite, apologetic, the kind of smile you offer someone when you’re turning down kindness you desperately want.

“I can’t,” I say, brushing my hand over his. “The twins are just down the hall. They’ve been waking up some nights. I need to be there if they call.”

His jaw tightens. Not by much, but I notice it.