Page 12 of Pregnant Virgin of the Bratva (Sharov Bratva #14)

Kion’s gaze never softens. It doesn’t drift, doesn’t falter. He watches like I’m the answer to something he didn’t know he was asking. That look should terrify me. It should make me feel like prey. Instead, it makes something low in my belly twist tight.

“You’re not done,” he says.

The words settle in my throat. I swallow.

His voice is steady, without breathlessness. He could’ve been lying still for hours, but I know better. His eyes are darker now, dilated and hungry, hooded with satisfaction but no hint of fatigue.

He moves beneath me, rolling onto his back. One arm hooks around my waist, dragging me with him.

I let out a soft noise, caught off guard, but he’s already positioning me.

He settles back into the pillows and looks up at me. “I like my women on top,” he jokes. “I’m a man of many tastes.”

The robe slips from my shoulders as I shift, knees bracketing his hips, thighs still trembling. I hesitate. My body aches, every nerve raw from the first time, but heat flares again at his command. His cock is hard again, thick and ready between us.

“I’ve never—” I start, unsure, but he cuts me off with a low sound, almost a growl.

“I’ll guide you, sweetheart.”

I reach between us, wrap one hand around his length, and line him up again. My breath catches as I sink down, slow and aching. I’m sore. Too sore, but I want it anyway. The stretch this time is deeper, sharper, made worse by the angle and the pressure of him watching me.

He groans beneath me, hands sliding up to grip my hips. “Take it slow.”

I do.

My thighs tremble with the effort, muscles straining as I sink onto him, inch by inch. I feel him fill me again, stretch me until I gasp and have to brace my hands against his chest. My head drops forward. Sweat beads along my hairline.

“Look at me,” he says.

I lift my chin. His hands slide up to my waist, firm and controlling.

He guides my movements at first, rolling his hips upward as I grind down, setting the rhythm with every press of his hands.

He watches each flicker of pain or pleasure in my face, memorizing the shift in my breathing, the tightening of my jaw, the way my lips part around quiet moans I can’t swallow back.

“You’re so tight like this,” he murmurs. “So fucking good for me.”

I try to speak, to curse him, to tell him to stop talking—but I can’t find the words. My hips rock forward again, and this time, I feel the pressure shift, the angle hit something that makes my body jolt.

I cry out.

“There,” he says, smug now. “Do that again.”

I move faster, riding him with more confidence, chasing that flash of pleasure with each grind of my hips.

The soreness fades beneath the hunger. I lean forward, planting one hand on the headboard behind him.

His hands slide up my sides, cupping my breasts, thumbs flicking over my nipples until I’m panting.

“You look so fucking good like this,” he groans. “Split open and dripping on my cock.”

My cheeks flush. My rhythm stutters. I press harder against him, chasing the wave I can feel building low and tight in my belly. His hands return to my hips, tightening.

Then he thrusts up hard.

I scream—sharp and ragged—and nearly collapse.

He catches me, arm locking behind my back. “You like that?”

I nod, barely coherent.

He takes control again, fucking up into me from below, guiding my body with both hands now. Every thrust hits deeper. I can’t breathe. I can’t think. My body is on fire, my skin slick, hair clinging to my face. He bites down on my throat, not hard enough to feel it, but enough to leave a mark.

“I want you to come again,” he says.

“I—can’t—” I choke out.

“Yes, you can. You will.”

His fingers find my clit, circling it as he drives up into me again. My body goes tight. Too tight. I claw at his shoulders, at the sheets, at anything I can hold on to.

“I want you to come on my cock,” he growls. “I want to feel you squeeze around me. Come for me, Esme.”

The sound of my name in his voice pushes me over.

I shatter.

The orgasm rips through me, violent and hot, a burst of white that makes the room spin. I scream—loud, breathless, clenching around him as every nerve ignites.

He fucks me through it.

Every thrust drags the pleasure out longer, keeps my body trembling, twitching, crying out. He growls something low and broken, hips jerking as he slams in deep and spills inside me, his cock pulsing as he comes again.

I collapse against him, trembling.

Afterward, I lie still.

The room is quiet, dimly lit by the bedside lamp he never bothered to turn off.

My body aches in places I didn’t know could ache.

My legs are too heavy to move. My skin is slick with sweat and cooling fast, making me shiver beneath the thin sheet.

I can still feel him inside me, my body stretched, used, full.

His cum is already sliding down the inside of my thigh.

I don’t know what to feel.

My throat is tight. Not from pain. From something else. My eyes sting, and for a moment I think I might cry… but the tears don’t come. They hover, waiting, uncertain. Like me.

He lies beside me, half propped on one elbow, his eyes still on me.

Not soft. Not tender. Just watching, like he’s trying to read something he already suspects is there.

His chest rises and falls slowly. His skin is warm.

His scent—smoke and sweat and something faintly metallic—lingers around me like a second skin.

He reaches for a cloth without saying a word.

I flinch before I can stop myself. His movement is too calm, too deliberate, and I’m too raw. He notices. Of course he does. But he doesn’t comment. He dips the cloth in the bowl of water left on the nightstand, wrings it out, and returns to me.

His touch is methodical.

He wipes between my legs, cleaning away the mess he left behind. I gasp at the contact—too sensitive—but he doesn’t pause. He finishes what he started, then tosses the cloth aside and pulls the sheet higher over my hips.

I glance at him, and his face is unreadable.

Kion doesn’t offer comfort. Doesn’t ask how I feel. He doesn’t pretend this was anything other than what it was. When he catches me staring, he raises a brow, makes a show of dipping the cloth between my thighs.

Then, his hand finds my waist again.

He doesn’t pull me close. He just lets it rest there, warm and firm, like he’s reminding me without speaking that I’m still his. That I belong to him now, whether I want to or not.

Something stirs in me.

It has teeth. It coils low in my belly, tighter now that the sharpest edge of the night has dulled.

It isn’t affection. It isn’t even comfort.

It’s need, born from fear and heat and the way his eyes never left mine when he was inside me.

The way he looked at me like I was his already, or like I would never belong anywhere else.

His hand still rests on my waist. Heavy. Anchoring. He hasn’t spoken since the last breath we dragged out of each other, but his presence is louder than words. He’s there, right there, and no part of me feels free of it.

I keep my eyes on the ceiling, but I feel him shift slightly beside me. His body is solid, warm, too close. He doesn’t wrap around me. He doesn’t pull me in like a lover might, but his fingers flex slightly against my skin, like he’s still reminding me where I am. Who I’m beside. What I’ve become.

Somehow, the reminder isn’t enough to drive me away.

I’m exhausted.

My body is bruised, inside and out. My thighs ache. My skin still tingles in the places he touched—mouth, hands, teeth. Every inch of me feels claimed. Possessed. I should be angry. I should be terrified. I should be screaming into the pillow.

Instead, my eyes start to close.

I tell myself it’s only survival. That sleep is the only escape left to me. That I’m too tired to fight anymore, but it’s more than that. My breathing slows as his thumb strokes once more across the ridge of my hip.

I don’t even want to move.

Sleep takes me before I can deny it.