Page 49 of Forced Marriage to the Cruel Bratva Pakhan

The sight of her looking at me—really looking, her gaze traveling over exposed skin with undisguised want—makes something possessive and primal surge through me.

I return the favor, sliding her sweater up and over her head before working on the clasp of her bra with practiced efficiency. When the fabric falls away, revealing full breasts and soft curves, I have to pause just to appreciate what I’m seeing.

“Don’t stare,” she says, a flush creeping down her neck.

“I’ll stare as long as I want.” I lower my head to take one nipple in my mouth, using teeth and tongue until she arches beneath me with a gasp. “You’re beautiful, Serena. I’m going to make sure you understand that.”

I lavish attention on her breasts until she’s writhing and making sounds that will fuel my fantasies for months. Then I move lower, kissing down her stomach, feeling the way her muscles tremble under my lips.

When I reach the waistband of her jeans, I look up to find her watching me with dilated pupils and parted lips.

“Yes?” I ask, fingers already working the button.

“Yes,” she confirms breathlessly.

I strip away her jeans and underwear in one smooth motion, spreading her legs to see exactly how ready she is. The sight makes my mouth water—she’s glistening, flushed pink, beautiful in ways that make rational thought difficult.

“Pavel, please.” She reaches for me, trying to pull me back up.

“Not yet.” I settle between her thighs, ignoring her protest. “I want to taste you first.”

The first stroke of my tongue makes her cry out, her good hand flying to my hair while her hips lift instinctively. I grip her thighs to hold her in place, taking my time to explore every fold and sensitive spot until I’ve mapped exactly what makes her gasp versus moan versus curse.

She tastes perfect: sweet and musky and addictive. I work her with deliberate precision, alternating between broad strokes and focused attention on her clit until she’s trembling and desperate.

“Oh my God, Pavel.” Her words dissolve into incoherent sounds as I push two fingers inside her while my mouth continues its work.

She comes hard, her entire body going taut before shuddering through waves of pleasure. I don’t stop, working her through the orgasm and halfway into another before she finally pushes weakly at my head.

“Wait,” she gasps. “I want you inside me.”

I kiss my way back up her body, tasting her arousal on my own lips. “Patience.”

“I’ve been patient for weeks.” She reaches between us, finding my belt and working it open with surprising coordination given her injured hand. “I want you now.”

The demand in her voice makes me smile despite the painful hardness straining against my zipper. “Demanding.”

“You like it.” She manages to get my pants open, her hand wrapping around my length with confident pressure that makes me groan. “Don’t pretend you don’t.”

She’s right. I do like it. I love the fire in her eyes, the certainty in her touch, the way she refuses to be passive even now.

I shed the rest of my clothes quickly, then return to settle between her thighs. The head of my cock presses against her entrance, and we both go still for a moment.

This changes everything. Once we cross this line, there’s no returning to the careful distance we’ve maintained.

“Are you sure?” I ask, giving her one final chance to reconsider.

“I’ve never been more sure of anything.” She wraps her legs around my hips, pulling me closer. “Stop asking questions and fuck me already.”

The crude language from her polished mouth is surprisingly arousing. I capture her lips in a bruising kiss as I push inside in one smooth thrust.

We both groan at the sensation of her heat gripping me, impossibly tight and wet and perfect. I have to pause once I’m fully seated, giving us both time to adjust to the intensity.

“Move,” she demands against my mouth. “Pavel, please move.”

I pull back slowly, then thrust deep again. Her cry of pleasure spurs me on, and I set a rhythm that’s harder than I initially intended—driven by weeks of suppressed want finally given outlet.

She meets me thrust for thrust, her hips rising to take me deeper, her nails digging into my back with stinging pressure. The sounds she makes—breathless gasps and needy moans and my name in increasingly desperate tones—drive me higher.