Page 15 of Forced By the Obsessed Bratva (Yezhov Bratva #8)

My wrists strained in his grip. He was holding them down with one hand, easily, like I was nothing to him in strength. But inside, I wanted to hold him. To feel the hardness of his body beneath my fingers. To wrap my arms around his neck and pull him closer until there was no space between us.

The hunger from that night, the one he’d left me drowning in, returned with brutal force.

I needed him.

All of him.

I bucked my hips, grinding against the hard ridge of his slacks. He groaned low in his throat, and it did something to me, made the fire twist deeper, hotter.

“You’re making me crazy,” I moaned.

His mouth dragged down my throat, leaving kisses like fire. My head tilted back, giving him everything, even as my breath turned ragged.

Then his hand slid between my thighs, hiking up the shirt with slow, devastating purpose.

I gasped as he tore my panties, the fabric snapping against my skin. Before I could speak, two fingers slid inside me, rough and deep.

My body arched. “Matvey—”

“Say it,” he growled against my throat. “Say you want me.”

“I—” My voice broke. “I want you. Please.”

He paused, breathing heavily. “You’re my wife, but you’re still acting like you belong to someone else.”

Tears stung the corners of my eyes. “I’ve never wanted anyone else.”

He kissed me hard again, like the truth had unlocked something feral in him.

In a matter of seconds, he’d moved us to the bedroom, never once breaking the kiss that consumed us—not until he sat on the bed.

And then he flipped us. I was straddling him, knees on either side of his hips, my hands braced against his chest. His cock strained beneath his pants, pressed hot and thick against me.

“Take off your shirt,” he said, his voice rough with restraint.

I did. Slowly. Exposing myself to him fully.

He stared like I’d just bared my soul. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

His hands found my breasts, fingers curling around them, teasing, tugging. My head fell back, another cry tumbling from my lips.

“You’re perfect,” he said, voice low. “And you’re mine.”

His hands were everywhere.

On my skin. My waist. My breasts. The curve of my hips.

Every place he touched felt branded, like he was rewriting me with the heat of his palms.

I rocked against him, chasing the friction, the contact, the relief I hadn’t found on my own hours earlier.

“Matvey,” I whispered, breathless. “We shouldn’t be doing this. You are—”

“I am your husband,” he grunted beneath me, voice rough. “You’re doing it already.”

He was right. He was my husband; he had every right to my body, and I wanted him as much as he wanted me.

I wanted to feel him inside me, to feel the heat from his body inside mine.

He sat up in one fluid motion, pulling me tighter into his lap. His arms wrapped around me like he didn’t know how to let go. Like he didn’t want to.

“You drive me insane,” he muttered, dragging his mouth down my neck. “You wear my shirt…roam my house…touch yourself like I don’t have the right to ruin you myself.”

Heat flashed through me.

“I didn’t know you were watching,” I said quietly.

He froze. Then pulled back enough to meet my eyes. “I see everything, kotyonok . Every single move you make.”

I didn’t argue.

Because he was right.

A part of me had known. Maybe even wanted him to see me and how much I needed him.

“Do it,” I said, my voice barely more than a breath. “Ruin me.”

His eyes burned.

Then his mouth was on mine again, fierce, consuming, while his hands pushed his pants down just enough to free himself.

I felt the hard press of him against me, thick and ready, and all I could do was whimper as he lined himself up.

But then he paused.

One hand slid between us, fingers brushing through my slick heat, rubbing slow circles against my clit until my head dropped against his shoulder, my breath fractured.

“Matvey—”

“You’re soaked,” he growled. “For me?”

I nodded, too far gone to pretend otherwise.

Then he thrust up—slow, deep, and unforgiving.

I cried out, my nails digging into his shoulders.

He filled me like he’d been waiting for it. Like we were made for this exact destruction.

“Look at me,” he rasped. “You want me, don’t you? You’ve wanted me since the first time we met, since the first time I kissed you?”

“Yes,” I gasped.

“Then take it, kotyonok .”

He moved again, hips rolling beneath mine, and I lost whatever restraint I had left. I rode him with everything in me. Anger, desire, grief. Letting it all burn between us.

I kissed him like I hated myself for it.

He kissed me like his life depended on it.

Because I didn’t want mercy.

I wanted him.

All of him.

His hands gripped my hips like I was going to vanish. Like he didn’t think the second was going to pass.

Each thrust was hard, deep, claiming every inch of my soul. The type of rhythm that hurt and blessed all at once.

I couldn’t breathe.

Couldn’t get my head clear.

All I could do was hold on to his shoulders, my fingers buried in his skin as he slammed into me over and over.

“Say it,” he snarled against my neck. “Say who you belong to.”

I did not want to give him the power. I wanted to deny him the satisfaction of knowing I was now his.

But then he moved, shifted his hips, and rammed into me faster and deeper until stars exploded behind my eyes.

“You—” I said through ragged breathss. “I’m…yours.”

“Say it louder.”

“You,” I choked out. “I belong to you.”

His groan was sin itself. Raw, rough, unfiltered.

One hand slipped between us, his thumb finding that sensitive spot between my legs.

Pleasure flooded through me so fast I almost snapped.

My body stiffened, all muscles contracting—and then I was falling.

My release slammed into me like a tidal wave, destroying my spine and ripping a sob from my chest.

“Matvey—”

He let out a primal groan, his grip closing down tighter as he thrusted into me again.

Once. Twice.

Then he lay still with his jaw clenched, arms wrapped around me as he spilled into me with a low, broken moan against my neck.

His body trembled against mine, and everything went still.

Just our breathing. Our hearts. The aftermath of what we’d just done.

I leaned against his chest, limp and dazed. My hands were wrapped around the back of his neck. I didn’t want to release him.

I didn’t want to speak, and I could tell he didn’t want to either.

Because in that moment, whatever existed between us wasn’t war. It wasn’t hate.

It was something deeper.

Something stronger.

Something I would definitely regret in the morning.