Page 54 of The Cold Bratva King and His Forced Curvy Bride

He chuckles, a low, dark sound. One hand grips my hip, holding me steady. The other guides himself to my entrance.

He pushes in.

The stretch is intense. He’s big, bigger than I expected, and he doesn’t give me time to adjust. He seats himself fully with one long, powerful thrust.

I cry out, my fingers scrabbling for purchase on the smooth, cold stone. It’s a burning sensation, a mix of pleasure and pain that steals my breath.

“Christ,” he hisses, his forehead dropping to my shoulder. “You’re tight.”

He pauses for a second, letting me get used to the intrusion. Only a second.

He pulls back, almost withdrawing completely, before slamming back in. The force rocks me forward, my breasts pressing against the stone.

He sets a rhythm. The sound of flesh slapping against flesh echoes in the night air, mixed with my broken cries and his guttural groans. It’s primal. Feral. We’re animals on the edge of a cliff.

His hand snakes around my front, finding my clit again. He rubs circles, matching the pace of his thrusts.

“Scream for me, Freya.”

I do. I can’t help it, the dual stimulation is overwhelming. The pleasure builds again, sharper and higher than before.

“Look at the city,” he demands, his voice rough in my ear. “Look at it while I fuck you.”

I force my eyes open. The lights are blurring, streaking as he drives into me. It’s dizzying. Disorienting.

“Who owns you?” he growls, biting down on my shoulder.

“You,” I gasp. “You.”

“Say my name.”

“Nikita!”

“Again.”

“Nikita!”

He slams into me, hitting a spot that makes me see stars. My legs are shaking, my muscles trembling with the effort of holding myself up.

“Come,” he commands. “With me.”

He thrusts deep, grinding his hips against me, and I lose it. My walls clench around him, milking him, dragging him over the edge with me.

He gasps, his fingers digging into my hips hard enough to bruise as he finds his release. I feel him pulse inside me, hot and thick, filling me up.

We stay locked together, our breaths mingling in the cold air, our bodies trembling with the aftershocks.

Slowly, the world comes back into focus.

My knees give out. I slump forward against the railing, only his grip on my hips keeping me upright.

He rests his forehead against my back, his heartbeat slowing against my spine. For a long time, we just stand there.

I can feel the mess between my thighs, cooling in the winter air. I can feel the marks on my neck, the soreness in my muscles.

It feels real.

Slowly, he pulls away. The loss is physical, a hollow ache left behind. I hear the rustle of clothing as he tucks himself back in.