Page 67 of Bratva Baby

He chuckles low and the sound sinks into me. His hands bracket my hips, thumbs pressing slow circles through the thin fabric of his shirt—my shirt, technically, though it’s halfway up my thighs now and the scent is all him. He teases along the edge of the hem, lifting it inch by inch.

“Open for me,” he murmurs.

“So polite.”

“I know what I want. Spread, Sofiya.”

I uncurl my legs the way he likes, heels sliding along polished wood until my knees fall apart and the cool air hits the damp between my thighs. He looks down with something that’s not quite a smirk, not quite awe, cheeks roughened with stubble that already scraped my lips raw, eyes dark enough to make me forget anything but the way he looks at me when he’s about to sin.

“Goddamn,” he says quietly.

“Get on with it.”

“You’re dripping through my damn shirt.”

“Maybe get your shirt off.”

“Not yet.”

He drags a finger up the inside of my thigh, slow enough to make my breath shake. When he reaches the wet lace between my legs he strokes once, twice, like he’s memorizing the way I tremble, then crooks his finger and pulls the fabric aside.

Anton kneels.

“Anton,” I warn, not sure what I’m warning him about except the fact that my body is already leaning into whatever he wants.

“You said not to be gentle,” he says, breath hot against me.

“So don’t be.”

“I’m a very obedient man.”

“Liar.”

He laughs again, then presses his mouth to my slick folds and the rest of the room goes white.

“Ah, fuck.”

He devours me, tongue sliding up with deliberate hunger, lips sealing around my clit, sucking hard until the sound ripping out of me is a strangled, breathless “Aah, Anton!” that he answers with a rough groan, the vibration hitting nerve endings I didn’t know I had. His hands brace under my thighs, forearms locking me open while he licks, circles, thrusts his tongue inside me like he wants to taste every pulse of heat building in my spine.

“Look at me,” he orders.

I force my eyes down, meet his gaze while his mouth is buried between my legs. The sight almost breaks me. Dark eyes, darker desire, hair falling over his forehead, jaw flexing every time he drags his tongue up to lash my clit and suck it hard enough that my hips jerk.

“Fuck, you’re—Anton, don’t stop⁠—”

He growls into my body, the sound loud and wet and obscene, and I clutch for purchase, fingers scraping across the wood before I grab his hair and hold him to me. He takes it, groaning again, the sound around me like molten electricity. My head tips back, mouth open, thighs quivering.

“Close?” he rumbles against me.

“Yes, yes, don’t⁠—”

He slides one hand up, thumb pressing tight little circles over my clit while his tongue pushes inside me again, fucking me with each desperate stroke until I shatter.

“Ahh—Anton!”

He keeps his mouth on me through it, drinking every tremor, all of it slick on his tongue and chin, and I feel my muscles fluttering against him, giving him every ounce of the climax he just ripped from me.

When he finally pulls back, his lips are swollen and wet with me and he wipes the back of his hand over his mouth, savage satisfaction in his eyes.