Page 15 of Stalked & Bred by the BRATVA (Bred by the BRATVA #6)

I don’t sleep.

Not really.

I lie there in the dark, flushed and aching, his words echoing through me like a fever.

I want you to feel what it’s like to be owned.

No one touches you now unless I say so.

Next time you dream of me, don’t wake up.

I’m burning.

It’s not just in my skin, it’s in my chest, my stomach, between my legs. I’m soaked. Desperate. The kind of desperate that makes you forget who you were before someone looked at you like that.

I can still feel his hands on me. His mouth. The way he held me against the shelf like he’d already decided I belonged there. And I let him. I wanted him to.

I still do.

I press my thighs together under the covers, but it’s no good. My whole body is tight and empty and begging for more.

This is insane.

I shouldn’t want him. I should be scared. I was scared. But that’s gone now, or maybe it’s changed into something else. Something worse.

I close my eyes and picture him again. The way he looked in the moonlight. The low command in his voice. The heat in his stare.

My hand slides under the blanket, trembling, but I can’t stop. I press my palm between my legs, feel how wet I am, and let out a soft gasp.

I’m going to lose my mind.

The door creaks.

I freeze. My hand stills. My breath catches. And then—

His voice. Low. Rough. “Don’t stop.”

I can’t see him in the dark, but I feel him. His presence fills the room like smoke, curling into the corners of my mind.

“Let me see,” he says.

I should tell him to leave. I should pull the blanket up and roll over. But instead, my hand moves again. Slow. Deliberate.

I slide my fingers lower, parting myself, and moan as I find that place that’s already throbbing for him.

He steps closer. I hear the quiet shift of his shoes on the floor. My heartbeat slams in my chest. I’m so wet my fingers glide with no resistance.

“Good girl,” he murmurs.

I whimper.

The blanket is pulled back. Gently. Carefully.

The moonlight spills across my body. The nightgown is bunched around my hips, the silk already damp. I should be ashamed. But I’m not.

I want him to see.

I want him to touch.

“Open your legs for me.”

I obey.

His hand comes down on my thigh, firm and possessive. His fingers trail up, slow and hot, until he’s brushing against mine.

“You want help?” he asks, voice dark with hunger.

“Yes.”

He brushes my hand aside and replaces it with his own.

The first touch makes me cry out. He strokes me with maddening precision, circling, pressing, teasing until I’m grinding against his fingers like I’ve forgotten who I am.

He watches me the whole time. I can feel it. I don’t need to see his face to know he’s drinking this in.

“You’re soaked,” he murmurs. “All for me.”

“Yes.”

He slides one thick finger into me and I moan like I’ve been starving for it despite the short sharp snap of pain from never having been entered before.

He works me open, slow but unrelenting. Then two fingers. The stretch makes my toes curl. I can’t stop moving, my hips rolling in small, desperate circles.

“Such a tight little cunt,” he growls. “No one’s ever been here, have they?”

I shake my head, barely able to breathe.

“Say it.”

“No one,” I gasp. “Only you.”

“Good girl.”

He curls his fingers and my whole world shatters.

The orgasm hits fast and sharp, stealing the breath from my lungs. I clamp down around him, crying out as the waves crash over me.

He doesn’t stop. He works me through it, slow and possessive, like he’s claiming every pulse of pleasure for himself.

When it fades, I’m shaking. Blinking up at the ceiling like I don’t know where I am anymore.

He leans in, his mouth brushing the shell of my ear.

“That was mine,” he whispers. “The next one will be louder.”

Then he’s gone.

I’m wrecked.