Page 34 of Unrequited (Bratva Kings #6)

He flicks the leather strap across each cheek, a measured, controlled rhythm that feels more like a seduction than a strike. Each one lands with purpose, not violence, not punishment. Not yet. It’s like he’s drawing heat into me, teasing the edge of pain, coaxing my body to respond, to yield.

He’s not even using half his strength; I know that.

He’s playing with me. Testing my limits.

Warming me up for something darker.

Something I can’t yet see, but I can feel it coming, like a storm on the horizon.

“There,” he says, after six deliberate lashes.

He sets the belt down like it’s something sacred, something he treasures, not just a tool, but a ritual. Then his hands, warm and possessive, cup my ass, his palms pressing firm against the sting, soothing and branding me all at once.

“You’re a good girl, Zoya.”

I sigh. There it is.

His voice is almost too soft, deceptively gentle. It slides over my skin like silk, wrapping around me.

“I don’t think you need a severe punishment, do you?”

But oh, something inside me wants it.

Wants the punishment .

Wants to earn it.

Wants to see exactly how far he’ll go.

Wants to feel everything he’s capable of giving.

Still, I shake my head, my voice barely above a breath.

“No, sir.” I swallow. “I really didn’t mean to disobey you. I’m sorry.”

The words come out quiet and broken, fragile like glass on tile.

A tear slips down and hits the floor before I even know it’s there. My chest tightens.

“There,” he says again, softer this time, smoothing his palm over me, again and again. Each pass is reassurance and claim, comfort and control.

“That’s a good girl.”

The way he says it… god, the way those words wash over me.

Then his hand shifts and slides between my thighs, nudging them apart with the back of his fingers. A subtle command.

His fingers find me wet, throbbing, and desperate, and he groans low, like the sound was pulled from somewhere deep in his chest.

“Just as I thought,” he murmurs, his voice thick now, heavy with knowing. “You’re aroused again, aren’t you?”

I nod, almost ashamed by how badly I need him.

The desire climbs through me like fire, licking every nerve and demanding more.

It’s shocking how fast it returns. How much harder it hits.

I’ve never come more than once in a night, but with him? With Seamus?

Everything is more.

Every breath is sharper.

Every part of me is lit up like he’s flipped some hidden switch.

I used to think about him when I touched myself in the dark.

Sometimes I’d let myself come. Sometimes I’d stop at the edge, then fall asleep aching for him.

He’s pulled every string in me, tuned me to the brink of madness.

“Good girl,” he whispers reverently, like he’s promising something only I get to hear.

“There you go, baby. On your back. I want to taste you.”

“Seamus…” I’m already trembling, as he pinches the heat of my ass cheek, grounding me.

“What do you call me?” His tone is sharper now.

“Sir,” I choke out, my pulse hammering.

“Do you really plan on talking back to me just after I strapped you?”

I gulp and move to obey.

He moves with quiet purpose, going to the drawer. Metal cuffs gleam in his hands.

When he snaps them around my wrists, they click into place, my arms stretched above my head.

I’m held. I’m open. I’m his.

“Oh god…”

“Spread your legs.”

He kneels and settles between my thighs like he belongs there, and he does.

Then his tongue drags slowly, maddeningly, over my clit.

I cry out. My hips jerk, chasing the feeling, already trembling under the weight of his mouth.

I didn’t know it could feel like this.

Didn’t know I could want again so fast.

Didn’t know I could need this way.

But I do. God, I do.

He sucks. Licks. Flicks. Over and over.

I rise from the bed, straining for him, moaning for him, aching.

Then… he stops.

A kiss to my thigh, maddening in its gentleness.

“You’ll stay like that,” he says quietly. “Your punishment isn’t over.”

Then he stands.

“I need to do a few things.”

“Seamus,” I gasp. “My god, you can’t. Please… Seamus. ”

“What’s my name?”

“Sir,” I breathe out, wrecked.

“Don’t leave me like this. Please. I’m sorry, I promise I?—”

“And I promise you,” he cuts in coldly.

“I’ll let you come. You’ll love it when I do. But you’ll learn to obey me, Zoya. First, because I love it. Second, because it’ll keep you alive.”

Then he walks away, leaving me cuffed, wet, exposed.

Burning.

I squeeze my thighs together, seeking relief, anything, but it’s useless.

The ache only grows.

Even if I had the key, I wouldn’t use it.

I wouldn’t move.

I want to obey him.

I want to please him.

I want to be perfect for him.

I want to be his good girl.

God, I love when he calls me that.

So I wait.

I count. Ten. Fifty. Two hundred. Three hundred.

The storm outside rages, rain slamming the glass, thunder shaking the sky, but inside, it’s still warm. Still him. Still us .

Then he appears in the doorway.

“Still here, my love?”

His voice sends a shiver through me.

I nod.

“Spread your legs again,” he says, rough now, full of hunger.

“Seamus, sir, please…”

“That’s what I like to hear,” he growls. “I love to hear you beg.”

He drops to the floor again and licks me with purpose, his tongue flicking just where I crave it.

I cry out, my hips lifting off the bed like I’ve been shocked.

I want him.

I need him.

“Tell me you want me,” he says, low and commanding, his lips brushing against my thigh like a brand. It’s not a question, it’s a demand. A dark, brutal need.

“I want you,” I whisper, broken open. “God, I want you so bad.”

He exhales, slow and heavy, like he’s been holding his breath underwater. He reaches up, and his hand finds my throat, not choking, not tight, just resting. Possessive.

A reminder.

“You’re mine,” he growls. “This body. This mouth. This fucking sweetness between your legs. Mine. ”

I nod frantically, my eyes wide, panting. “Yes, sir. I’m yours.”

“Say it again,” he commands, his palm tightening slightly, not enough to hurt, but enough to remind me who's in control.

“I’m yours,” I say louder, trembling. “Every inch. Every part of me.”

“Good girl,” he purrs. “Now you can come.” He slides his tongue lazily over my clit.

The permission crashes into me like a wave breaking against stone.

I come undone.

The orgasm tears through me, wild and punishing. It doesn’t ask, it takes. My body bows against the restraints, my muscles seizing and my vision going white at the edges.

He watches the whole thing, still worshipping me between my legs, like this moment belongs to him.

It does.

“Beautiful,” he whispers, moving up and brushing a kiss over my temple. “So fucking beautiful when you break for me.”

“I want you. I want this. All of it, Seamus.”

I freeze. My breath catches in my throat, suspended like a thread stretched too tight.

“No,” he says softly, a low command wrapped in velvet. “Say it again. I want to hear my name again. ”

“Seamus,” I whisper, the word barely more than breath now, a sigh, a surrender.

“That’s it. Oh, good girl. You deserve a reward for that, don’t you?”

“Please, Seamus,” I whisper again, need curling like smoke around my voice, pulling it taut. “If you touch me again, it’s too much?—”

“Trust me.”

He bends down, and his mouth is hot, dangerous, as his tongue flicks across my nipple again, teasing and tormenting until my hips rise of their own accord. My body is no longer mine. It’s his. All his. I buck, begging without words, drowning in the ache.

“Beg me,” he orders, a gravelly threat laced with desire. “I want to hear you beg.”

“Please,” I gasp. “Please let me. I need to, please, let me…”

“Will you obey me?”

“Yes,” I cry, trembling under the weight of how badly I need him. “I promise. I’ll be good. I’ll be so good for you.”

Tears slip down my cheeks, hot, unrelenting. I’m undone, raw as he fingers me. I’m so close to the edge already. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve come, but my body knows what to do now.

“Seamus, please .”

“That’s my girl,” he murmurs, licking the other nipple with reverence that borders on worship .

“That’s my angel girl. I give you permission to come, love,” he says, his lips brushing against the swell of my breast like a vow. “You have my permission.”

He suckles. He strokes my cheek with fingers that almost feel gentle. And then I shatter.

Pleasure detonates through me, violent, blinding, a firestorm I couldn’t stop even if I wanted to.

Blood pounds in my ears. Nerves light up like fireworks, bright and merciless.

I moan, my hips writhing, every part of me begging for more as he strokes my pussy, fingers my clit, plunges two fingers deep, curling them until they hit that perfect place, my G-spot, again and again, with ruthless precision.

He licks and sucks and presses until I can’t take it, until I dissolve into something boneless and breathless beneath him.

And then he’s kneeling above me. Watching.

“I want you on your knees,” he says, calm and controlled, as he unfastens the cuffs from my wrists. “I want to take you, love.”

I scramble to obey, eager and desperate, but he shakes his head slowly, the movement deliberate.

“No,” he murmurs. “I need to ease you into this, don’t I? We need time. More time.”

Then he shifts, pressing the thick head of his cock against me, and I gasp.

My arms wrap around his neck as he slides inside .

This time, it doesn’t hurt. This time, it’s nothing but pleasure, pure, indulgent pleasure.

He did this to me.

He broke me open, made me come so hard I shattered, made me wet and swollen and ready for him. And now I take him easily. Willingly.

He moves inside me, slow and careful, his control razor-sharp. His kisses are soft, almost reverent.

He thrusts again, and I feel it, that he’s holding back.

He’s not the kind of man who ever holds back, but right now, for me, he is.

He’s giving me care. Respect. Maybe even love.

Again and again, he moves inside me, each thrust deeper, more deliberate. My pleasure builds slowly this time, a slow burn, a climb toward something inevitable.

“I’m going to come again, sir,” I whisper against his neck, trembling.

“Call me by name now,” he growls.

“Seamus,” I moan, my breath hitching. “Seamus, I’m going to, please.”

“Go on, Zoya,” he whispers. “Come as many times as you want.”

Then he drives deep, and I splinter again, but this climax is different, less sharp, more consuming. Deeper. It fills me to the edges.

I press my chest to his, moving with his thrusts, feeling the tremble in his body as he nears his own release.

When he comes, his body jerks, and his forehead falls against mine.

“God, this is so goddamn sweet.” He groans. “God, I love you, Zoya.”

He pulls out slowly, carefully, his every movement tender.

And then he’s back, inside me again, but not just physically. Emotionally. Entirely.

I’m so tired.

My eyes flutter shut as he gently cleans me. Like I’m precious. Like I matter.

My head finds its place on his shoulder, and my limbs go weightless, floating in the afterglow.

I want him. God, I want him.

I don’t know what he’s done to me.

I close my eyes and drift toward what I hope is dreamless peace.