Chapter Natasha
Natasha
I’m limp against him, my cheek pressed to his chest, hair sticking to sweat-damp skin. His cock is still inside me, heavy, twitching, not fully soft, as if my body refuses to let him go. Every throb sends another little aftershock through me, reminding me I’m stretched, filled, claimed.
I should be panicking. I should be planning my escape. But instead I feel… safe. Worshipped. Wanted in a way I’ve never been before.
I’ve fought so hard for scraps, to be taken seriously in a world where men wrote the rules and locked the doors. And now here I am, wrapped around one of the most dangerous men alive, and it’s the first time I feel equal. Seen. Chosen.
I tilt my face up. He’s watching me, maskless, his dark eyes steady on mine. One big hand strokes my spine, the other still cradles my hip as though to keep me impaled on him.
“When the bell rings tomorrow,” he murmurs, voice deep and sure, “the masquerade ends. We leave together without our masks, and the Bratva sees who I’ve chosen.”
My breath catches. “And what does that mean? For me?”
“It means,” he says, slow, deliberate, “you stop being a guest. You stop being an observer. You step into the Bratva as my wife. My queen. The woman carrying my heir.”
The words should terrify me. But the way he says them makes something inside me melt.
“I can’t wait,” he growls, hand sliding down to cover my belly possessively, “to see you round with my child. To fuck you when you’re so full of me you ache. To taste your milk when your body makes it for me, sweet and hot on my tongue.”
A flush sears my skin. It’s filthy, obscene. And yet the thought of it makes my thighs tighten around him, a fresh pulse of heat sparking low in my belly.
His thumb strokes circles over my back. “Every man in that ballroom will know you’re mine. Every cousin who envies me, every senator in our pocket, every vulture waiting for me to fail. They’ll look at your swollen belly and know I already won.”
I swallow hard. “You make it sound like I’m a weapon.”
“You are,” he says simply. “The sharpest one I’ll ever wield. With you at my side, the stories you’ll write… the names you’ll drag into the light… they’ll fear you as much as they fear me. Maybe more.”
My throat goes dry. “You’d let me publish them?”
His smile curves, dark and possessive. “I’ll feed you stories. I’ll give you judges on the take, senators owned by my father, police chiefs who sell themselves cheap. I’ll give you proof so sharp it cuts through every lie they ever told you.”
His cock twitches inside me at the same time his words land, and I can’t tell which makes me shiver harder, the promise of power or the filthy way he talks about my body.
He kisses my temple, then murmurs against my skin, “But every story you write, every truth you carry, will be written on my seed. On the heir you’ll give me. On the milk I’ll drink from your breasts when you’re heavy with me.”
A broken sound escapes my throat. Shame and want tangled together. Because God help me, I want it. I want him. I want all of it.
His words coil around me, low and dark, seeding images I can’t shake: swollen with his heir, ink-stained with secrets only he could give me, crowned in blood and power.
I should fight them. I should fight him. But his cock is still inside me, thick and twitching, and every beat of him inside me drags me further under.
Ivor’s hand strokes my hair back, his lips grazing my ear. “You’ll have your stories, little dove. Names that will bury senators. Judges. Police chiefs who kneel to us already. I’ll give you so much truth the world won’t know what to do with it.”
He grinds his hips up, and I gasp as his cock hardens again inside me, swelling, thickening, stretching me all over again.
His voice turns filthier, a growl against my throat.
“And while you write it all, I’ll bury my enemies one by one.
Deep graves, shallow graves, it doesn’t matter.
They’ll rot. And then I’ll bury myself in your sweet little cunt.
Drink from it. Live in it. Until you’re dripping full and begging me to stop. ”
A broken sound tears out of me, half shame, half desperate want. My hips roll on him without my permission, milking him as he stiffens further inside me.
He chuckles, the sound dark and pleased. “Hear that?” His hand covers my stomach again, pressing me down onto him. “Your body already knows. It’s pulling me deeper, begging to be bred again. Greedy little queen.”
I moan, burying my face against his chest, but it only makes him laugh, low and wicked. His cock jerks hard inside me, fully hard now, stretching me to the limit all over again.
Then he shifts.
Before I can catch my breath, his hands slide up my arms, gripping just above my elbows, and suddenly he’s holding me above him. My breasts hover just above his chest, my spine arches, and the angle changes as he thrusts up from beneath me.
I cry out, sharp and startled, the new depth stealing my breath.
“Look at you,” he growls, fucking up into me with brutal precision. His grip on my arms pins me in place, forces me to take every inch as he drives into me from below. “Open. Bound. Taking me so deep you’ll never forget who owns this pussy.”
The bed creaks under the force of his thrusts, his hips slamming up into me again and again until I’m dizzy, gasping, clawing for balance. Every stroke spears me higher, harder, his cock grinding against every tender place inside me.
My vision blurs. My moans turn into cries. And still he pounds up into me, relentless, holding me by my arms like a vessel he intends to fill until I can’t hold another drop.
“I’ll fuck you like this,” he snarls, sweat forming at his temples, “until you’re round with me, aching with me, milking me. And then I’ll fuck you harder, Natasha. Because a queen doesn’t get rest. A queen gets worship.”
My tits bounce harder and harder, my nipples sliding over his hard chest with every furious thrust. He looks down at my creamy mounds and lower to where his cock slides in and out of me with ferocious precision.
When his eyes come back to mine, his dark to my light, I can see they are heavy with arousal, with that need to let go.
He cums again, quieter this time as his body writhes with the effort. His face twists into a grimace, as though it’s causing him pain.
“Fuck, Natasha,” he finally gasps. “I can’t handle how good your cunt makes me feel.”
He flips me over onto my back, dropping kisses over my jaw, my collar bones and shoulders. He makes a hot trail right down to between my thighs.
“Come one more time for me, little dove,” he says against my wet folds. “While you’re full of my seed.” He reaches up and pulls a pillow from beside my head, then lifts my hips to slide it beneath me. “Your orgasms will pull my cum up to where it needs to be.”
Then his mouth is on me again, and I don’t know if I want to laugh or cry.
“Ivor, I can’t,” I say. “Please, I can’t come again.”
“Yes, you can,” comes his reply as he lowers his hot mouth and begins sucking my clit. When he pushes his thick fingers into my dripping channel, I’m not sure I’m even in my own body anymore. I watch from elsewhere as this terrifying man tears another orgasm out of my spent pussy.