Page 129 of Reclaimed By My Ex’s Bratva Brother

"Already healed."

One hand cradled the back of my neck, the other locked firmly at my waist. Each breath carried the loss of control from restraining too long, yet still stopped when I pulled back slightly, waiting for me.

I pressed closer to him, feeling the heavy heartbeat in his chest.

This man who once made me guess, made me cry, was now laying all his most difficult-to-show fears before me, proving his love.

He carried me through the lit stone path back inside. Each step steady, like he held not just me but the future he finally dared to trust.

The bedroom door closed behind me.

Varlam's mouth found mine again the moment we crossed the threshold. This kiss was different—hungrier, deeper. His hands moved with purpose, one threading through my hair, the other spanning my waist. When he finally pulled back, we were both breathless.

"I've waited so long for this," he said against my lips. His voice was rough, raw. "This is our home now. Ours."

The words settled into my chest, warm and right. I looked around his bedroom—our bedroom—for the first time really seeing it. Dark wood and leather, everything expensive and masculine, saturated with his scent. Cedar and something darker. The massive bed dominated the space, and heat flooded through me imagining what would happen there.

"Happy?" he asked, reading my face.

"Yes."

His hands moved to my shirt, fingers working the buttons. "Let me see you."

I helped him, suddenly desperate to feel his skin. The fabric fell away. His gaze dragged over me, heavy and heated.

"Perfect," he breathed. His palms cupped my breasts through my bra, thumbs brushing over the peaks. "So fucking perfect. These curves..."

He pushed the bra up and bent his head, mouth hot and wet. I gasped, arching into him. His tongue circled, teeth grazing lightly, and I felt it everywhere—thighs clenching, heat pooling low.

"Varlam."

"I want to taste you." He was already lowering me onto the bed, hands peeling away the rest of my clothes. "Need to."

He settled between my thighs, broad shoulders forcing them wider. The first stroke of his tongue made me cry out. He groaned like I was the best thing he'd ever tasted, then got serious—licking, sucking, focusing on the spot that made my hips buck.

"God, yes!" My hands fisted in his hair, holding on as pleasure built sharp and bright.

He added his fingers, curling them perfectly, and the combination shattered me. I came hard, thighs shaking around his head, his name a broken sound in my throat.

When I could breathe again, he was kissing my inner thigh, looking up at me with dark satisfaction.

"Not done," he said. "Come here."

He lay back and pulled me up his body. I realized what he meant and hesitated.

"Trust me." His hands gripped my hips. "Want your weight on me. Want to drown in you."

The raw need in his voice decided it. I let him position me over his face, and then his mouth was on me again and I stopped thinking. He held me exactly where he wanted, tongue working relentlessly, and the intensity was almost too much. My hands braced on the headboard as I rocked against him, chasing the pleasure he gave so perfectly.

"Don't stop," I gasped, and felt him smile against me.

The second orgasm hit harder than the first, whiting out my vision. I would have collapsed if he hadn't held me steady through it.

He moved me gently, laying me back on the bed while I trembled. I watched him strip, finally seeing all of him—broad chest, scarred abdomen, the hard length of him.

Then he was over me, settling between my thighs. His eyes found mine.

"I love you," he said. "You taught me what that really means."