Page 72 of Forced By an Obsessive Bratva Stalker

Rodion didn’t come until after my dam shattered. And while my body was trembling with ecstasy, he finally let go, shooting his load deep into my pussy. My waist was glued to his groin, his eyes locked to mine in a moment that would later define the course of our relationship.

While his essence filled me up completely, my squirt spilled over his cock as we climaxed together. The feeling was like nothing I’d ever felt—warm and intense in a way that stole both our breaths.

I wasn’t supposed to let him cum in me again, but I couldn’t help it. Besides, there’s a good chance that I was pregnant already.

Speaking of pregnancy, I was nearing my due date for my period, meaning sooner or later I’d know my fate.

The more I tried to focus on something important, like how to convince Rodion to let go, or what I’d do if I were truly pregnant with his child, the more I thought about fucking him. Over and over again.

One thing was certain to me now: I was becoming addicted to him. To his dick, his touch, and his kisses. Whenever he touched me, I always felt alive and satisfied, as if I’d been starving without even realizing it.

With him, I felt like a woman whose body was cherished and adored. The man might be the devil himself, but at least he knew how to please me. He was always attentive to what I craved during sex. He didn’t only explore my body when he got the chance; he also listened to the things I never said out loud.

Slowly, Rodion Tarasov was starting to consume my every thought, making me consider things that I usually wouldn’t.

What if staying here wasn’t such a bad idea after all? He clearly didn’t have any plans to kill me or to let me go. What if, instead of hating him—something I was already failing at anyway—I tried to convince him to bend his rules?

Whatever was going on between us, the feeling seemed to be mutual. So maybe instead of fighting him, I could take a more subtle approach and hope for the best.

Maybe, if I played my cards right, I might make it out of this one piece.

***

Later that day, in a bid to clear my head, I went to the one place in the mansion where I knew I could find some kind of knowledge. The library. It was the only place that didn’t seem like a trap.

Everything else—the dining room with its formal table and its candlelight, the corridors with their closed doors and their implicit boundaries, even the bedroom—all of it carried the particular weight of a space designed to contain rather than to welcome. Including the enormous living room.

But the library somehow felt different. It was as though the space had its own logic, and that was the closest thing to breathing room I’d found in the four days I’d been here.

That was right, four days. Four days that felt like four months.

I spent most of my time here, especially when I wanted to get away from my own thoughts and my new reality.

Not because I’d run out of ways to be angry, but because anger without direction was just noise. And noise without purpose had never been something I could sustain for long before the journalist in me overrode everything else and demanded I do something useful with my hands.

He’d returned my laptop the day after the sex in my room. Not my phone—he kept it confiscated.

Deep down, I couldn’t help thinking I’d blown and ridden him so well that he felt the need to compensate me.

The laptop was brought to my room by a staff member who introduced herself as Yelena. Tall. Lean. Dark hair and hazel eyes. Pretty too. She spoke English; her voice was thick with the Russian accent.

“Miss Bennett.” She walked inside, holding what looked an awful lot like my laptop. “The boss asked me to bring this to you.”

My eyes widened in shock as I jumped out of bed and rushed over to her. “Are you serious?”

She nodded, handing it over.

I accepted it.

It included a note stating that the network and certain files were restricted.

I had a feeling the handwriting was his—neat, slanted like a carefully crafted signature.

As disappointing as that was, I could still work with it.

Rodion didn’t know this, but a few months ago, long before I even crossed paths with the Bratva, Jimmy hand-built me a secondary access protocol for exactly the kind of situation where I needed to get into something I shouldn’t.

After she delivered what she was told to deliver, she turned around, ready to leave.