Page 9 of Claimed by the Enemy (Moretti Bratva #2)

“I haven’t stopped thinking about this,” I tell her, voice rougher than I intend. It sounds like gravel pressed between my teeth.

She lifts her foot, lets it skim the back of my leg, soft and teasing.

“Then stop thinking,” she whispers.

And that’s all I need.

I kiss her.

It’s the kind of kiss that starts somewhere low in my spine and burns upward until it hits the back of my throat. Her mouth parts under mine, and I sink into her like I’ve been starving and this is the only thing that’s ever going to feed me.

Her hand grips the edge of the table. Mine slides up her back, into her hair, and I feel how soft it is, how easily it slips through my fingers like black silk. My other hand stays at her thigh, and I swear I can feel her pulse fluttering just beneath the surface.

She tastes like champagne and defiance. Like trouble dressed in lace.

I pull back an inch, not because I want to stop, but because I have to see her face again. Her lips are swollen. Her chest is rising fast. She looks like temptation in human form, like something made in secret and left here just for me.

“Are you sure?” I ask. My voice is quiet, but it cuts through the air like a wire pulled taut.

She nods. Slow. Confident.

“Yes.”

Her fingers find the collar of my shirt. She pulls me back in without hesitation, and this time, there’s no more thinking.

There’s just heat.

And her.

And the moment we’re about to ruin together.

Her kiss tastes like surrender.

Not the timid kind — not the giving up of a fight — but the kind that roars in my chest like a challenge.

Her hands are at my collar, tugging, needing me closer, and I let her.

I lean in until there’s no space between us, until her chest presses against mine and I feel the steady thrum of her heart.

I shift, keeping one hand braced against the table, while the other runs up her side.

My palm finds the curve of her waist, follows it to the dip at her back, and I pull her toward me.

Her breath catches when I move my mouth to her neck, letting my lips trail along her pulse.

She smells like heat and silk and the ghost of the champagne she drank hours ago.

“You’re shaking,” I murmur against her skin. Not mocking. Just reverent. Because I am, too.

“Only because you haven’t touched me properly yet.”

I slide a hand between her shoulder blades, down the line of her spine. The clasp of her bra is delicate, but my fingers are practiced. It comes undone with a flick, and I wait a beat—just to see her reaction.

Her eyes stay locked on mine as the lace loosens and falls away from her shoulders. She doesn’t cover herself.

I take her in slowly. Her breasts are full, nipples already hardened. I run my thumbs over them, light at first, then with more purpose. She gasps, spine arching forward, mouth parting with a sound that slips past her lips before she can stop it.

I bend to take one nipple in my mouth, my tongue tracing slow circles, then pulling tight with suction. She whimpers and fists my shirt. Her thighs tense around me, her body leaning into the touch like she’s chasing more.

“Fuck,” she whispers, her voice fraying.

I move to the other breast, slower this time, letting my teeth graze the peak before I soothe it with my tongue.

Her hands find my shoulders, grip tightening with each flick of my tongue, each warm drag of my mouth.

She’s breathing faster now, and I know what she needs.

She’s so close to begging, and the thought drives a low groan from my chest.

I trail kisses lower, along the flat of her stomach. Her thighs part without a word, and I settle between them. She’s in just the lace panties now—sheer black that does nothing to hide how soaked she is. My fingers curl beneath the waistband, slow and deliberate.

She lifts her hips.

I slide the panties down her legs, watching them drag along her thighs, past her knees, and to her ankles. She kicks them aside, bare now, open and waiting.

I glance up. Her hair is a dark halo around her face, lips swollen, chest rising in quick, uneven breaths. Her fingers grip the edge of the table, knuckles white.

I lower my mouth.

The first pass of my tongue earns me a broken sound from her throat.

She tastes like heat and salt and something so addictive I never want to stop. I lick her again, slower this time, then flatten my tongue against her and press deeper.

She gasps my name, hips jerking. I grip her thighs to hold her still and dive in.

My tongue works her clit in soft circles, then flicks. I feel her tremble. Her thighs close around my head, then open again, desperate and uncoordinated. I don’t let up. I drag my tongue down, tease her opening, then return to the bundle of nerves that’s already throbbing against me.

She cries out. One hand flies into my hair, gripping tight, anchoring me there.

“Dom, don’t stop—don’t you dare stop.”

I groan into her, the vibration making her jolt. Her heels dig into the table edge; her body twists under the intensity of it.

When I suck gently—just enough—she starts to come apart. Her legs stiffen. Her hips lift. Her breath vanishes completely.

And then she shatters.

Her cry echoes off the cellar walls. Her hands clench in my hair. She rides through it, using my mouth, taking me. And I let her. I devour every second, every sound, every wave of her pleasure until she collapses against the table, boneless and breathless.

I stand slowly, dragging my mouth up her stomach, across her chest, back to her lips. Her body is trembling, flushed, and open. She kisses me again, tasting herself on my mouth.

I grip her jaw gently, holding her there. “You’re mine tonight,” I murmur. “All of you.”

She nods, and it’s not resistance anymore. It’s fire.

I step back just enough to unbuckle my belt. Her gaze drops, watching every movement as I drag the zipper down and shove my pants lower. My cock springs free, hard and pulsing, and her breath catches again.

She reaches for me, wrapping her fingers around my length. I hiss as her thumb brushes the sensitive underside, her grip confident but slow, teasing like she knows exactly what it does to me.

“Sophie.” My voice comes out low, almost broken.

She looks up at me, chin tilted. “Yes?”

“You keep doing that, and I’m not going to last.”

“Maybe that’s the point.”

Her palm tightens, and I lose the ability to think. I grip her hips, lift her just enough, and pull her to the edge of the table. Her legs fall open again, her core still wet and aching from the orgasm I just gave her.

I guide myself to her entrance, dragging the head through her slick folds. She whimpers when I nudge against her, the sound raw and needy.

“Dom, please.”

I push in, slow and steady. Inch by inch. Her warmth grips me tight, drawing a curse from deep in my chest. Her nails dig into my shoulders as I stretch her open, her jaw falling slack as she takes me fully.

“God,” she breathes.

I pause when I’m all the way inside her, both of us frozen. The fit is perfect. Like her body was made to hold me, like this was inevitable from the moment she walked into my life.

I pull back slowly, then thrust again, watching her eyes flutter shut.

“Look at me,” I say.

She obeys. Those big eyes lock onto mine, and I start to move. Deep strokes, unhurried but firm. I want her to feel every inch, to remember this later, and ache for more.

Her moans rise with each movement. She wraps her arms around my neck and clings to me as I fuck her slow and deep. Her back arches, pushing her breasts against my chest, and I take a nipple into my mouth again, sucking until she cries out.

I grip her thighs tighter and thrust harder, the sound of our bodies filling the cellar. Wet. Wild. Real.

Her breath comes in quick bursts. She’s close again. I feel it in the way she clenches around me, in the frantic roll of her hips, in the way her hands grab at anything they can.

“Right there,” she gasps. “Don’t stop. Right there.”

I fuck her harder, faster, our rhythm growing messy and desperate. Her cries echo against the stone walls, and I press my forehead to hers, swallowing every sound she gives me.

“Say it,” I groan. “Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours, Dom.”

Her words tip me over the edge. I thrust once, twice, then spill into her, groaning as I lose control. She follows seconds later, shuddering around me, her legs wrapped tight around my waist, pulling me as deep as she can.

We stay there, locked together, sweating and trembling, the taste of each other still lingering in every breath.

And even though the world outside that cellar still wants to pull us apart, in this moment, nothing exists but her and me.