Page 62 of The Bratva Stalker's Ruthless Claim
“I don’t care!” I fire. “Do what you want!”
His eyes darken, and anger rolls off him in waves.
“Okay then, Ellie,” he says, his voice a low, dangerous vibration. “I’m going to do what I want.”
Before I can even blink, he clamps a hand over my mouth, silencing my protest. In one swift, powerful motion, he flips me until I’m facing the wall, pinning me against the cold surface.
I try to speak, but he clamps harder, his palm a warm, unyielding barrier. With his other hand, he yanks my dress up my legs, the fabric bunching around my waist. My body instantly melts with a treacherous desire as I moan against his hand. Hedoesn’t hesitate; he yanks down my underwear and immediately sinks his fingers deep inside my heat.
I’m forced onto the tips of my toes as he presses the full, hard weight of his body against my back. He fucks me with his hand, his rhythm punishing and relentless, mirroring the fury in his eyes.
“You’re so fucking stubborn,” he growls into my ear, his breath hot and jagged. “You want me. Admit it.”
He drives his fingers deeper, his thumb finding my clit and grinding against it with a bruising intensity. He’s not being gentle, and the raw, aggressive edge of his touch is driving me toward a ledge I didn’t know existed. I writhe against him, my muffled cries lost against his palm, my hips bucking back to meet his hand as the tension coils tighter and tighter inside me.
“This is what I fucking want. You! I want to devour you. Fuck you until you scream my name. That’s what I want.”
His fingers pump in and out of me, relentless and hard. He jams one of his legs between my thighs, forcing them apart to give him more room to work me over. Just when I’m about to break, when the orgasm is right at the tip of my tongue, he plucks his hand out of me.
I cry out at the sudden coldness. He pulls his hand away from my mouth.
“Say you want me,” he says, his voice a dark command. “Say it.”
I keep my mouth stubbornly closed, my chest heaving, my head pressed against the wall.
“So fucking stubborn,” he mutters.
He drops to his knees behind me. He yanks my underwear down and away, tossing them aside. He grabs both cheeks of my butt, pulling them wide apart, and buries his face in my heat. He sinks his teeth into the sensitive skin of my thigh before his tongue finds my clit, licking and sucking with aprimal hunger. He isn’t just tasting me; he’s eating me alive, his mouth a hot, wet vacuum that makes my knees buckle. I have to grab the wall to keep from falling as he devours me, his growls vibrating against my most sensitive parts.
“Mike, please,” I beg, my fingers clawing at the wall.
He’s relentless. Every time the pressure builds, every time my orgasm teases the very edge of my senses, he pulls away. He leaves me cold and desperate, gasping for air, only to dive back in a second later.
He does it again and again, pushing me higher and then dropping me, until I’m a blabbering, embarrassing mess. My legs are weak, shaking so violently I’m about to pass out.
“I want you!” I finally scream, my pride shattering into a thousand pieces. “Please! I want you, Mike!”
He gives my clit one last, sharp kiss that sends a bolt of lightning through my spine.
“That’s more like it,” he rasps.
He rises up behind me, his body a wall of solid, burning muscle.
Before I can even turn to see what’s next, he grabs my hips and drives himself into me in one massive, punishing thrust. He buries himself deep, hitting my center with a force that knocks the wind out of me. I cry out, my head thumping against the wall as I sag against him, finally filled, finally claimed.
He fucks me hard against the wall, his rhythm frantic and unforgiving. I cry and beg and moan, my voice a jagged edge of sound in the small space. Every time he slams into me, my toes curl against the floor, and I can feel the raw power of his body overwhelming mine. He’s marking me with every thrust, making sure I remember exactly who he is.
“You’ve been begging for me to put you in your place for days, Ellie. You’ve been begging for it,” he growls, his teeth grazing the shell of my ear.
“Yes!” I cry, my head rolling back against his shoulder. “Yes!”
We both don’t last very long because this tension has been building for days, a pressure cooker that finally exploded. The friction is too much, the heat too intense. Orgasm hits us both at the same time, a violent, bone-shattering collision of pleasure and pain. I scream into the wall as he groans, his fingers bruising my hips as he spills himself deep inside me.
We both crash, breathing heavily, the only sound in the room our ragged gasps for air.
When we regain ourselves, the silence that follows is deafening. The anger is gone, replaced by a hollow, aching reality. I don’t look at him. I can’t. I head straight into the bathroom, the shame washing over me as quickly as the desire had. I know it’s not fair. I shouldn’t act like this—he’s my husband, but in this moment, it feels like we’re miles apart.
“You shouldn’t feel this way,” I murmur to myself under my breath, scrubbing at my skin. But the truth hits harder than the water: I do. I can’t fight it, not entirely.
