Page 16 of Claimed By the BRATVA Grump

"You're sure," he says, gripping his cock and pressing it against my center. It's not a question. It's a checkpoint.

"I'm sure," I say, and I wrap my legs around his waist to prove it.

He pushes into me slowly. Slow enough for me to feel every inch of him. My head falls back and my mouth opens, but no sound comes out because it's too much. It's exactly enough. It's everything. He fills me completely and we both freeze for a second, breathing hard, foreheads pressed together, and I can feel his heart hammering against my chest.

"Okay?" he asks, and the word is strangled.

"More than okay," I breathe. "I’ve never felt so full."

He pulls back and thrusts in, the counter edge digs into my thighs but I don't care. I want the pressure; I want the proof. He sets a rhythm that's steady and deep and his thumb finds the place where we're joined and presses. I cry out, loud enough that I'm glad we're thirty-two floors up with no neighbors close enough to hear.

"Like that," I gasp, gripping the edge of the counter to stop from falling from it. "Just like that. Don't stop."

"I couldn't stop," he grits out, and his hips snap harder. "Not if I wanted to. Not with you."

His other hand slides up my spine and cups the back of my neck and he holds me there, held in place by his body and his hands and his eyes, and the intimacy of it is almost too much. He's not just having sex with me. He's claiming me, marking me, making sure I know exactly who I belong to in this moment.

The pressure builds fast, too fast, spiraling tight and hot in my belly. I didn't think it would happen this quickly but he's touching me exactly right, angling his hips so he hits a spot inside me that makes my vision blur, and I'm making sounds I didn't know I could make, broken and needy and his.

"I can’t wait to make you come on my cock," he says against my ear, and his voice is pure worship wrapped in desperation. "I can’t wait to feel you, Sammie…Feel you milk me dry."

I shatter around him, my body tightening and pulsing around him. I bury my face in his shoulder and scream his name into his skin. He keeps moving through it, drawing it out, and then he's following me over the edge with a long, low groan that sounds like my name and a curse and a prayer all at once.

When his hips stop stuttering, I notice we’re both shaking. His weight presses me back against the cabinets, my legs still locked around him. The kitchen smells like coffee and sex and the faint woodsmoke scent of his skin, and I don't think I've ever been this satisfied in my entire life.

He presses a kiss to my temple, my cheek, the corner of my mouth, soft now, almost reverent. "Are you alright?" he asks, and his thumb brushes over my hip where his fingers left faint bruises.

I look at him, at this terrifying, beautiful man who is currently breathing hard inside my arms, and I smile. "I'm perfect," I tell him. "You're going to have to work a lot harder than that to ruin me, Mr. Grumpy."

He laughs, a real laugh, and it transforms his whole face. "Challenge accepted," he says.

Eduard

She is so tight around me, in every conceivable way. My cock is still twitching inside her as I carry her through to my bedroom and lie her down on my bed.

“How are you still hard?” she asks.

“Because it’s you,” I say, dropping kisses over her collar bone and down between her breasts as far as I can without having to slide from her.

She pushes her fingers through my hair, her fingers scraping over my scalp and sending little shocks of sensation through my skin.

“You took me so well,” I praise her, needing her to know how amazing she is. “You are perfect for me.”

She shivers as I pull out of her, wincing a little with the loss, which I’m not going to lie, feeds my ego like crazy.

I suck her nipple into my mouth, flicking my tongue over it until she moans.

“Eduard, what are we doing?” she asks.

I release her nipple and look at her, hoping I don’t find regret on her face. Her eyes are searching mine, looking for an answer.

“Let me,” I say simply. “Trust me.”

She hesitates for a moment, one hand still in my hair, then nods.

The simplicity of that gesture hits me somewhere I didn't know was still tender. Trust. She's giving it to me freely, the way she gives everything, and I don't have a single category for what that means.

I kiss my way down her stomach, covering every inch with my mouth. She's soft here, rounded, real in a way that makes my hands shake. I've touched violence my whole life. I've never touched anything this gentle and had it survive. I spread her thighs with my palms and look at her, because not looking would be a waste of something sacred. She's glistening, pink, already swollen from where I was inside her, and the sight of it makes my mouth water with a hunger that has nothing to do with politeness and everything to do with prayer.