Page 116 of The Bratva's Secret Baby
“Relax,” he says, looking up at me. “I’ve been thinking about this for weeks.”
He lowers his head, and his mouth is hot and certain when it finds me.
I cry out, one hand slamming to the back of his neck, the other clawing at the stone ledge. He licks slowly at first, dragging his tongue through my folds with maddening precision, then flicks it over my clit just hard enough to make my hips jerk.
He groans against me like the sound of my pleasure gets him off, and he does it again, then again, until I’m grinding against his face, shameless and shaking.
His grip tightens on my thighs, keeping me open for him, and when he slides one finger inside me while sucking my clit into his mouth, I splinter.
I come with a choked sob, head thrown back, the world narrowed to nothing but the heat of his mouth and the strength of his hands.
He doesn’t stop. He keeps licking me through it, soft and slow now, kissing my inner thigh like he’s proud of what he just did.
When he finally rises from the water, his face glistens, his eyes locked on mine, and his cock is hard and heavy between us.
He leans in and kisses me, deep and filthy, and I taste myself on his tongue.
I don’t want slow anymore. I grip his shoulders and pull him into me, my legs wrapping tight around his hips, my mouth finding his before he can answer. He makes a rough sound in his throat, surprised and pleased at once, and I feel the shift in him immediately. The restraint is still there, but it bends.
“You sure?” he asks against my mouth, his hand sliding down between us, testing, feeling.
“Yes,” I breathe. “No barriers. I want you.”
His eyes search mine for a second, not for doubt, but for certainty. I give it to him. I nod once, slow and steady, and that’s all it takes.
He lifts me easily, water spilling around us, and sets me on the wide stone edge of the bath. The cold hits my wet skin and I shiver, but he steps between my thighs and the cold disappears. He drags the head of his cock slowly through my folds, gathering slick heat, watching my face as he does it.
“Look at me,” he murmurs.
I do.
He pushes in without hurry, inch by inch, and it feels different without the thin layer between us. Closer. Hotter. Real in a way that makes my breath leave my lungs in a rush. I clutch at his shoulders as he fills me, my body stretching, welcoming, adjusting.
When he’s fully inside me, we both go still.
It isn’t hesitation. It’s recognition.
His forehead presses to mine, his hands firm on my hips, and I feel the steady thud of his heart against my chest.
“God,” he mutters. “You feel?—”
“I know,” I whisper.
He pulls out slowly and slides back in, deeper this time, and I moan softly, my head tipping back. The movement is smooth, controlled, his hips rolling instead of snapping, but there’s nothing lazy about it. Every stroke is deep and sure, his pelvis grinding against me at the end of each thrust.
I wrap my legs tighter around him and rock with him, meeting him halfway, urging him faster without words.
The steam thickens around us, the water still lapping behind him, but the sound that fills the space now is skin on skin and our breathing, heavy and uneven.
He lifts one of my legs higher over his shoulder, changing the angle, and the next thrust hits something hot and electric inside me. I gasp and grab at his arm.
“There,” I say. “Don’t change it.”
He doesn’t.
He keeps that angle and increases the pace, not brutal, but urgent. His jaw tightens, his eyes dark, his control slipping just enough to make it dangerous. I can feel how close he is, the tension in his thighs, the way his hands grip me harder with every movement.
I slide one hand down between us and touch myself, needing more, needing the edge to tip faster. He watches me do it, his breathing rough.
