I can’t keep staring at that fucking delicious smirk or those eyes that tempt and tease me at the same time. I flip her hard—grab her hips, yank her up onto her knees, face down in the leaves and dirt. She gasps, arches instinctively, ass presented like a goddamn offering. Skirt still bunched around her waist, torn panties hanging off one thigh. Boots planted wide in the undergrowth. The second-skin over her fresh tattoo gleams faintly in the moonlight, my cracked crown sealed on her shoulder blade.
Mine. The Bratva’s. Protected.
Claimed.
And it’s still not fucking enough.
I peel off my shirt toss it to the trees, let the cool air lick my skin before I line up behind her, grip her hips so hard I’ll leave bruises she’ll feel for days. One brutal thrust and I’m back inside her—deep, ruthless, the ladder dragging every ridge along her walls. She moans broken and filthy, pushes back to meet me like she’s starving for it.
“Fuck! Yes, like that,” she pants.
I release her hips, lean over her, chest to her back, one hand fisting her hair to arch her neck, the other clamped over the tattoo through the plastic. I feel the raised lines under my palm. My mark. My queen. My everything.
“You feel that?” I growl against her ear, hips snapping forward hard enough to make her cry out. “That’s me inside you.Onyou. In your fucking blood now. You don’t get to run anymore, Beda. Not from me. Not ever.”
She laughs—ragged, breathless, defiant even pinned under me. “Then take it all, Pakhan. Take everything.”
Everything.
The word vibrates around my skin.
I fuck her harder, savage, punishing strokes that slap skin against skin, leaves crunching under us, dirt grinding into her knees. The ridges of my piercing catch on every withdrawal, drag on every plunge, and she’s shaking, clenching, dripping down my cock.
“Look at you,” I rasp, voice shredded. “Spread open for me. Dripping for me. Wearing my crown like it’s jewelry. You think this is enough? You think marking you once keeps you safe? Keeps you mine?”
I slam in deep and hold—grinding, circling, feeling her flutter around me.
“No,” I snarl thrusting hard with every word. “It’s not. I need more. I need every fucking second of you. Every breath. Every fight. Every time you open that smart mouth and dare me to break you. I need you beside me. Under me. On your knees. In my bed. In my war. In my fuckinggraveif that’s what it takes.”
My hips stutter when she whimpers my name—soft, wrecked, pleading.“Maksim—”
The sound rips through me. My chest caves. My cock throbs so hard it hurts. My heart slams against my ribs like it wants out, wants to fuse with hers.
I love her.
The truth slams into me so violent my rhythm falters. I love her so much it’s tearing me apart. Cock and heart colliding, no fucking coordination, just raw need. Obsession.Forever.
I can’t breathe around it.
I can’t survive without her.
“Marry me,” I rasp, just before the edge hits, voice cracked and desperate. “Fucking marry me, Ayla.”
I come with a guttural groan—spilling deep, hips jerking, flooding her while my hand presses harder over the tattoo like I can brand the word into her skin. She shatters right after, cunt pulsing, milking me, a broken cry echoing through the trees.
We stay locked like that for long seconds, me buried to the hilt, her trembling under me, both of us gasping, sweat and dirt and blood mingling.
I finally pull out, slow, reluctant, watch my cum drip down her thigh, mixing with the mess we’ve made. I shift and drop to my back on the forest floor, chest heaving, staring up at the slivers of moon through the branches.
She rolls into me immediately. Drapes one leg over my hip, skirt still rucked up, skin sticky and streaked. Her head finds my shoulder. A soft, breathless chuckle vibrates against my neck.
“I thought I was bad with the‘I love you,’” she murmurs, voice wrecked and teasing, “but you have me beat with that proposal. The answer’s no, by the way.”
My chest tightens, sharp, almost painful. For one stupid second it feels like rejection. Then I remember who she is. My Beda. My trouble.My equal.
I let out a low chuckle, force it smooth, cover the ache. “That cunt is worth a ring.”
She laughs; bright, sharp, slaps my chest once, playful but hard enough to sting.
