Page 15 of Forced Virgin Bride of the Bratva (Sharov Bratva #13)
His hands flex on my hips. He starts again—slow, languid strokes that draw out the burn of pressure, the spark of need. My fingers clutch at his back, nails digging into the skin where his muscles flex and tighten with each movement.
The eye contact doesn’t break. He watches me as he moves, and it’s almost too much. No place to hide. No room for pretending.
“You’re mine,” he whispers, voice low against my ear. “Do you understand that?”
A shiver runs through me. I nod, but he’s not satisfied with that.
“Say it.”
“You—” My voice catches as he thrusts again, deeper this time. “You’re right.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
I don’t answer with words. I arch into him, hips lifting to meet his. It’s all the answer he needs. His mouth finds my throat, kisses hard enough to leave heat in their wake but not enough to bruise. Not yet.
His hands roam down my sides, over the curve of my waist, to the softness of my thighs. He touches like he’s memorizing, like every inch of me matters.
The lace is gone now, peeled away and discarded. His mouth replaces it—every kiss trailing lower, his teeth grazing delicate skin, teasing the edge of pain but never quite crossing. His control is precise. Dangerous.
I crave the moment he’ll lose it.
I’m panting now, hands fisting in the sheets as he rocks into me harder. The slow rhythm frays, crumbling beneath the tension coiling in his body. His breath grows ragged. The tendons in his arms stand out.
Still, he watches. Still, I can’t look away.
I try to speak. Try to say his name, but the words fall apart when he drives into me again, fast and deep, a grunt escaping his chest.
There’s no pretending now. I’m not composed. Not careful. My hips chase his. My legs tighten around him. I moan into his shoulder, desperate to stay grounded as he pushes me higher.
“Maxim—” I whisper, finally.
He groans at that. His pace stutters, hips grinding into mine. The sound of skin on skin fills the room—sharp, wet, real.
One of his hands lifts to cradle my jaw, guiding my face back to his. “You’re beautiful like this.”
His mouth covers mine before I can respond.
The kiss is messier now. Deeper. All tongue and teeth and breathless need. It matches the rhythm of his body, hard and fast and unforgiving.
I lose track of time. Lose myself completely. When I fall apart beneath him, it’s not silent.
I cry out—his name, broken and raw. My body arches, shakes, pulses. He follows, not long after. A rough groan against my skin, his hands locked tight around my waist as he spills inside me, hips pressed flush.
We stay tangled for a long time.
Sweat slicks my skin. The sheets cling. My chest heaves.
He brushes hair from my face, thumb lingering at the corner of my mouth. His expression is softer now, but there’s still tension there—always.
“Was that your version of restraint?” I murmur, voice hoarse.
His eyes darken. “That was me being careful.” The silence stretches. Then he adds, almost too quiet to hear, “Next time, I won’t be.”
He doesn’t move away immediately. One of his hands remains at my waist, the other lightly tracing a line across my ribs, like he’s still trying to settle something inside himself. The firelight flickers across his face, softening the harsh planes for a moment.
I lie still, watching him. The air feels different now—thick with what we’ve done, with what it means. I should be afraid. Maybe I am.
But I don’t feel regret.
He leans down again, his mouth brushing the space between my collarbones, lips soft, almost reverent. Not a kiss, a mark.
I feel the press of it long after he pulls away.
Eventually, he lifts himself from the bed, moving in quiet, deliberate steps. He doesn’t speak as he retrieves his shirt from the floor, folding it over one arm. I watch the movement of his back, the tension still clinging to him.
“You’re leaving?” I ask.
He pauses at the edge of the room, half turned. His expression is unreadable. “Not far.”
It should be cold, the way he says it. Somehow, it’s not.
The door clicks softly behind him.
I lie in the silence, eyes on the ceiling, the thrum of my pulse still echoing in my ears. My body aches in a dozen places—in good ways, in strange ones. The sheets are tangled around my thighs, the scent of him still thick in the air.
I touch the ring on my finger, still heavy, still new.
I wonder what kind of wife I’ll have to become to survive him.
***
I wake before the sun rises. The sheets are still warm, twisted around my legs. My skin hums with the memory of his touch, a low ache between my thighs and a weight in my chest that won’t lift.
The room is quiet. Too quiet.
Maxim’s side of the bed is empty, the space where he lay cold. He didn’t even stay.
A faint breeze slips through the cracked window, brushing cool air across sweat-slick skin. I pull the sheet tighter around me and sit up, slow, limbs heavy.
The dress I wore earlier is gone. Someone must have taken it. In its place, a new silk robe hangs neatly from the wardrobe. It’s paler than the one I wore last night, embroidered at the cuffs. Another decision made without me.
I put it on anyway.
Outside the window, the grounds are still cloaked in mist. Trees stand like sentinels, motionless in the morning hush. The estate is a kingdom, and I am the queen with no crown—only a ring that still feels too tight.
I move to the mirror. My reflection is flushed. Lips swollen. Hair a mess. I trace a finger across my collarbone where his mouth lingered, half expecting to see the print of his claim left behind.
I don’t recognize the girl looking back at me.
A knock sounds at the door. Polite. Precise.
I don’t answer right away. When I do, my voice is steady. “Come in.”
A maid enters, eyes cast low. She curtsies. “Breakfast will be served downstairs, Mrs. Sharov.”
The name doesn’t feel like mine. Not yet.
“Will he be there?”
“I don’t know, ma’am.” She waits a moment longer, then slips out.
I stare at the door after it closes, heart thudding.
This house is too big. The silence too thick.
Still—I want to see him again. I want to know what last night meant. If it meant anything at all.