Page 43 of Pregnant Virgin of the Bratva

“Come on, Esme. You killed a man with a vase. Don’t tell me you’re scared of a few words. Say it like you mean it.”

“I’m yours.”

I pull her closer.

Her breath shakes. Her thighs press against mine, and when I slide my hands up her spine, she arches into the contact. Her body remembers me. I can feel it in every shift of her weight, every tremble in her muscles.

“You want me,” I say.

She doesn’t deny it.

“You hate that you do,” I add, “but it’s there.”

Her fingers reach for my shoulders, hesitant. I let her find me. I let her hold on.

“You’re mine,” I say again. “And tonight, you proved it.”

She says it.

“I’m yours.”

The words come out quiet, shaken, but deliberate. I feel them settle between us like a weight dropped into still water. Her fingers are still clutched in my shirt, not pushing away—anchoring. Her eyes are wide, lips parted, and her chest rises with each sharp breath.

I take her by the waist and guide her back.

Her body yields without resistance, sinking into the mattress as the silk of her robe catches and pulls. She looks up at me, her arms tense where they frame her sides. Her legs part as I kneel between them, spreading her open with a firm press of my hand against her thigh. The robe slips from her shoulders.

Her skin glows in the low light.

I lean down and drag my mouth across her throat. My tongue traces the edge of her pulse, then my teeth sink in hard, just beneath her jaw. She gasps, arching into me. Her hands clutch the sheets. I do it again, lower this time, just above the swell of her breast. I want to mark her. I want her to wear it.

Her body twists beneath mine, desperate for more.

I grip one breast, hard, my palm flat and fingers spread. Her nipple pebbles under my thumb. I roll it slowly, watching her face contort. Her hips lift off the bed.

“Kion—” she breathes.

“Say it again.”

“I’m yours.”

My mouth crushes hers before the last word finishes. I kiss her with the kind of force meant to leave bruises. My tongue claims everything she offers. Her breath catches in her throat, her legs locking tight around me as I slide my hand between them.

She’s already soaked.

I drag two fingers through her folds, slow at first, then deeper, pressing inside without warning. Her body clamps around me. She moans—loud, ragged. Her hand flies to my shoulder, nails digging in.

“God, please—”

My fingers curl, stroking her from within, thumb circling her clit with slow precision.

“Feel that?” I snarl against her throat. “No one will ever fuck you like this. No one else gets to make you fall apart. Remember that, Esme.”

I feel her start to shake. Her hips buck. She’s close. I pull my hand away, and she cries out, frustrated, trembling. I grip her hips, line myself up, and thrust forward.

She cries out again, louder this time. Her head tilts back against the pillow, eyes squeezed shut, mouth open. I bury myself in her in one punishing thrust.

Her walls clench around me. Her hands clutch at my arms.