His Captive Bratva Princess: A Bratva Captive Romance

by Cole, Jagger

  “Is this me losing?” I growl. She only whimpers in response, trembling against me. My cock surges so fucking hard against her thigh, leaking precum over her soft skin. I rub her clit faster. Belle squeals as she pulls away from my lips again. Her face crumples in pleasure as she cries out.

  “Oh my God…” she whimpers.

  I slide my hand from her panties. She opens her eyes to stare at me in confusion and lust. I bring my finger to my lips and slowly wrap them around it. I suck the sweetness of her hot little cunt from my finger, and I groan deeply.

  “Losing tastes pretty fucking sweet, princess.”

  She moans when I kiss her hard. My hand slides back to her panties. But this time, I grab the waist and start to yank them down. My lips move lower with them. I kiss and suck at her jaw, then her neck. Her collarbone is next, and she whimpers.

  My fingers pop the clasp at the front of her bra. Her full tits spill free, and I growl. My mouth hungrily sucks one nipple between my lips. Belle cries out in pleasure. Her back arches as she moans desperately, hungry for my mouth.

  I move from one nipple to the other. With her panties at her knees, I slide my hand between her thighs. My fingers drag through her lips again as she moans for me. I rub her clit as my tongue dances over a turgid pink nipple. But then I move lower.

  “Oh fuck… oh fuck…” she whimpers.

  My mouth kisses lightly down her soft stomach. Her hips raise again. Her whines grow more desperate. I grin savagely: I’m teasing her.

  She deserves to be teased.

  I move lower and lower. I yank her panties the rest of the way off, and Belle gasps when I push her legs wide apart. My mouth leaves a red suck mark on her hip before I drop to my knees on the floor. I look up, and suddenly I’m groaning at the sight of her utterly perfect, gorgeous little cunt right in front of my hungry mouth.

  Pink, glistening, and dripping, and I’m about to devour her whole.

  Belle jolts and cries out when my mouth presses to her pussy. My tongue drags over her, parting her lips. I swear she almost comes from that alone.

  “Holy fuck!” She squeals. Her hands slide shamelessly into my hair, gripping me tightly. Her hips rock and jolt up off the bed against my mouth. I growl and push my tongue into her, delving it deeply to taste her.

  She whines in pleasure and squirms under my mouth. Her sweetness floods my tongue and drips down my fucking chin. I taste her deeply, and I drink her nectar like it’s my last meal on earth.

  My lips fasten around her clit. My tongue swirls and dances around the aching nub. Belle throws her head back, moaning wildly. Her cries of pleasure fill the motel room, and her body arches and writhes for me. Her sweetness floods my face, and the sounds of her pleasure have me so fucking hard.

  I reach down to wrap a fist around my cock. I stroke myself slowly as I tongue her clit. I move my tongue faster, harder. Belle’s moans grow higher and more breathless. Her body begins to tighten and clench. My eyes slide up her stomach, over her tits, to her face as it begins to scrunch up.

  “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my Gooooooddd!!”

  She screams in pleasure. Suddenly, her entire body jolts up from the bed. Her hips mash against my mouth, and her fingers grab my hair painfully. She cries out as wave after wave of her orgasm floods my tongue with sweetness.

  My tongue swipes up through her lips, bumping over her clit and making her gasp in pleasure.

  This is how I want her: shuddering for me. Panting and dripping. Desperate for me to bury my fat cock to the hilt in her and show her how a real man can make her beg for more.

  I move over her, growling as I pin her arms above her head. My lips crush eagerly to hers. She whimpers, kissing me back and tasting herself on my lips. My knees push her legs apart. My swollen cock head slips over her thigh, making her gasp. I roll my hips, letting my head nudge against her lips.

  Belle shudders, and her breath starts to come in gasps. I groan, this is exactly how I want—

  “Just go slow, okay?”

  I freeze. It’s not what she says. It’s how she says it. She doesn’t purr it in a sultry tone. It’s not meant as an innocent tease to goad me on.

  The sex kitten act is gone. The overly confident sultriness isn’t there anymore. My brow knits as I look down into her big blue eyes. I see nervousness. I see a little fear. I see that she might have no fucking idea what she’s doing.

  Holy shit.

  I pull back. Her face caves. “Wait—”

  “Have you done this before?”

  She blinks. She swallows thickly. “What do… I mean, of course I—”

  “Belle.”

  Her face grows hotter and redder. Her brow wrinkles and she turns her head to the side as her eyes close.

  “No.”

  Oh fuck. I start to stand, but her hands grab at me. “Wait, please. I—”

  “Not a fucking chance—”

  “I want you too, okay?!” She blurts. “Please, just keep going—”

  “Are you a virgin?”

  She bites her lip. “I mean…”

  “It’s a pretty simple yes or no answer,” I growl.

  Her eyes close. Her head nods.

  “Yes.”

  I pull away from her. I hate that I do, but I can’t do this. I’m riding on the edge as it is. But I can’t do that. Maybe I want to—desperately. Maybe my cock is harder than it’s ever been at the prospect of taking her for the very first time—of pushing into that hot little pussy and feel it open for the first time ever.

  But I know I can’t.

  I stagger back from the bed, panting. My eyes sweep over her. I want her, badly. But I can’t. I can’t be that man. I can’t be one more older guy creeping on a barely legal little tease and pulling her into bed to take what he has no business taking.

  “Wait—”

  “I have to go.”

  I turn, hating every step I take as I stomp out of her room and into mine.

  9

  Belle

  Two Years Ago:

  “Belle.”

  I stare through Jim’s office’s glass wall of windows at the billboard outside. It’s for a new movie, and I’m seeing the title, but I’m not reading it.

  “Belle?”

  I frown, re-reading the title for the tenth time.

  “Belle?”

  I blink and pull my eyes away. Jim frowns across his desk at me.

  “You okay?”

  I nod. “Fine.”

  But I’m not fine. It’s been two months, and I’m far from fucking fine. But I know the reality. I know I’m at a crux point in my career. If I let up the gas now, even to grieve, the ride is over.

  “Look, you know what?” Jim shakes his head. “We’re skipping this one.”

  “No, Jim—”

  “I’m serious. Belle, you’ve got a lot on your plate, and a lot to process.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You’re not,” he says gently. Jim might be pushy, and a little out of touch with the human side of this business at times. But he’s not a bad guy. It’s his job to be pushy. It’s his job to look at me and other clients as assets to utilize. That’s why he’s one of the best agents in LA.

  “Look, it’s only been two months. Your aunt would’ve agreed with me. You need to slow down. Take a few months to honor her and process her—”

  “Jim,” I say quietly. His brows raise. “We both know if I take a few months, it’s over.”

  His mouth twists. It’s his non-verbal way of saying “sorry, but yep.”

  Two months ago, ovarian cancer took my aunt Celine. The brutal irony of it was that she wasn’t able to have kids due to some sort of ovarian problem anyway. Then they went and killed her.

  Since then, I’ve technically been an emancipated minor. I’m sixteen, and in California, so long as I’m getting an education and have a place to live, I can do that. The studio provides the best tutors money can buy, and as for housing? Well, I have a net worth of six million dollars. I don�
��t think I’m going to go hungry.

  But I’m still at a turning point. I’m getting older. As disgustingly conceited as it sounds, I’m getting more beautiful. But that’s a problem when you’re famous for being “kid cute.” No one is going to give the part of the “cute kid” to someone with tits and full lips.

  Yes, studios have been throwing “sexy” parts at me since I started to hit puberty. But I always said no. I didn’t want to play a stripper. I didn’t want to play the slutty best friend character. It just wasn’t me.

  But now, the parts are drying up. Now, it’s do or die.

  “So, there’s this show I wanted to ask you about.”

  “Netflix?”

  He shakes his head. “Swedish Public Broadcasting.”

  My face falls. “What?”

  Jim does a noble effort of looking hopeful. “It’s uh… it’s not a bad part! It’s a period drama on King Gustav the Fifth of Sweden.”

  My heart drops.

  “Yeah, yeah, you’d be…” he frowns and glances down at his tablet. “Ebba Nilsson.” He smiles weakly and looks up. “She was the King’s head housekeeper, who he allegedly played tennis with.”

  “Jim…”

  “Look, it’s really not a bad part. I mean,” he chuckles weakly. “I’m not sure the Oscars are too involved with Swedish Public Broadcasting, but—”

  “Jim.”

  He looks up. “Belle,” he sighs. “Look, I do get it. You might not believe me, but I do. You’re hardly the first client I’ve ever had that didn’t want to be a sex symbol because you want to be taken seriously. But not everyone gets to be Julia Roberts, kiddo. Not everyone gets to be the sex symbol and the serious Oscar actress.”

  He frowns. “Look, I know you want Shakespeare and Woody Allen. The problem is, you look like…” he shrugs. “Well, you.”

  I look down.

  “So, look, I think we should move forward with—”

  “Screw it.”

  Jim frowns. “Hmm?”

  I look up at him. “Screw it. Let’s get adult. Let’s grow up.”

  He chews on his lip. “You’re sure about this?”

  “I am.”

  Jim smiles wryly. “I know it’s not what your plan was—”

  “It’s fine.”

  He nods. “You can still get there, you know. Embracing the sex appeal now doesn’t mean no one’s ever going to take you seriously. Not with those acting chops.”

  “You don’t have to sell me—”

  “I’m serious,” he grunts. “You’ve got it, Belle. It’s why I took you as a client. Kiddo, there are a million pretty girls in LA who’ll shake their tits on camera for a chance at Micheal Bay’s table scraps. You might be prettier than those girls anyway, but I’m representing you because you can act fucking circles around them.”

  I smile quietly. “Thanks, Jim.”

  “Don’t thank me yet,” he mutters. He clears his throat. “Alright, let’s do this. I’ve got the casting directors I’ll contact this afternoon who’ll chop their own hands off to get you in their next picture. But we need to work on image, too.” He looks up at me. “Do you listen to Daniel Crew?”

  I make a sour face. “The douchy YouTube guy?”

  Jim snorts. “Well, he’s getting into movies now.”

  “He… really? Can he act?”

  “Does it matter?”

  I roll my eyes.

  “He’s young, he’s hot, teens fawn all over him, and he’s got thirty million subs on YouTube.

  “He’s a dick.”

  “Oh, he’s… okay. He just knows his image and his audience well. Anyway, I know his agent, so I’m going to introduce you two.”

  “Eww, why?”

  “Because focus groups we tested this on lost their goddamn minds about the two of you being together.”

  My jaw drops. “Ew! Jim, no!”

  “Oh, c’mon, Belle. I’m not selling you into slavery here. It’s an image thing. Daniel ‘dirties’ you up a little more.”

  I groan.

  “Look, I know your aunt always thought of me as the bad guy—”

  “She didn’t—”

  “Yes, she did. And that’s okay. That’s my job. But my job is also to make you as famous, as successful, and as rich as possible. And this is the next step, believe me.”

  “Daniel freaking Crew? Really?”

  He shrugs. “One of the Backstreet Boys is single.”

  I gag. “You’re joking.”

  “I’m actually not.”

  “How old are they?”

  He grins. “Old. But everyone loves a good scandal.”

  “Not happening.”

  Jim smiles. “Well, then Daniel it is. I’ll set up the meet.”

  “How romantic,” I mutter, looking at my hands. My first boyfriend ever, and it’s being arranged in an agency office.

  “This is Hollywood, kiddo,” Jim shrugs. “Where we package romance up in little bubble-packs and ship it to the masses. If you want to be famous, you gotta appeal to more people. And you will with Daniel.”

  He sighs and looks at me as he leans back in his chair. “You want the top, Belle? This is how we get there.”

  I nod glumly. My eyes turn back to the wall of windows behind him and focus on the billboard again. This time, I can read the movie title: “Fake It ’Til You Make It.”

  I groan and sink into my chair. Story of my freaking life.

  Present:

  With the covers over me, it’s like the rest of the world goes away. When it’s just me in the darkness, it’s like I can finally be alone with just my thoughts. Sometimes, it’s been the only thing that’s kept me sane over the years.

  I’ve done this since I was a little kid. But even though I’m not that kid anymore, right now, I feel like one. I feel like the phony that’s finally just been exposed. I feel like an imposter with her mask finally taken away for everyone to see the fraud she is.

  I never asked for the “makeover” to my career. I was happy being the snarky cute kid with the witty lines. But then I grew up. Snarky-cute doesn’t cut it anymore once you grow curves and people—men—start to look at you differently.

  So for the last two years, I’ve been someone I’m not. I was never in love with the idea of becoming this sex symbol. But I went along with it. I played the part they wanted me to play. I mean it turned me from famous to sensation, I’ll grant that. It’s put my face on the cover of dozens of magazines and gotten me time on every single late night talk show in the country.

  But I’ve been living a lie with it.

  It’s fake; all of it. The sexiness, the sultry attitude. The “good girl gone bad” image. When interviewers have asked me insanely personal questions like “how did it feel to lose your virginity to Daniel Crew? Was it better knowing there were millions of girls out there who’d have killed to be you?” Or even grosser stuff like “Is Daniel as amazing in bed as we all know he is?” I’ve just blushed and avoided the questions. I haven’t lied, but I’ve been given “teaser lines” that allude to answers that aren’t real.

  I’ve lied, for two years. And I hate it.

  It’s not because I’m secretly this frigid girl with no desires or physical needs. Believe me, I have more of both than I know what to do with. I just don’t have them for Daniel.

  Under the covers, I blush as his smug face melts away and is replaced by someone… older. Someone dangerous. Someone very, very inappropriate, who I have no business having these thoughts about.

  The man I’m thinking of is Nikolai.

  I feel my core tighten as I tremble with desire. It’s so wrong. It’s crazy, actually. I shouldn’t want the man with the loaded gun and the bloody t-shirt in his bag—the one covered in the dangerous looking tattoos, who may very well be connected to the Russian freaking mafia.

  I tremble again. But again, it’s not out of fear. It’s out of need. Dangerous and rough or not, I know what I feel when I think of the man in the room next to mine. The m
an who just had his mouth between my legs, making me scream in pleasure like I never have before.

  My core tightens. Heat pools between my thighs as I squeeze my legs together. Slowly, I pull the blanket off of me. I turn and I stare at the cracked door between my room and his. My pulse thuds in my ears.

  I’ve had my life planned out and decided for me since I was eight. Every day, every interaction, meeting, lunch—every hour of every day, planned by someone else. Every role I’ve taken. Every role I haven’t. Every appearance I’ve made, every zinger line I’ve said to the cheer of a studio audience or room full of press.

  What I eat, what I don’t, how I look, how my hair is done, what clothes I wear, who I’m “romantically” involved with.

  It has all been mapped and written out for me, in ink. And I’m so, so fucking tired of it.

  I’m swing my legs over to sit on the edge of the bed. I’m still naked. And I’m still aching for the man who set a fire in me not fifteen minutes ago.

  I’m eighteen years old, and I’ve been in a cage for my entire life. But the last man I was ever looking for—the dangerously gorgeous stranger with a motorcycle and a gun who just made me explode? Well, he just broke me out of that cage. Or at least, he bent the bars wide enough for me to run free.

  But only if I dare.

  My heart thuds in my chest as I stand. Part of my brain is screaming at me to sit back down; to push a bookshelf in front of the door between our rooms and flush these thoughts away. I take one step and then another. I ignore the voices of Jim, my handlers, and my “team” screaming at me that this could destroy everything.

  I don’t care anymore. I’m done being told what I can and can’t do. I’m through with being told who I can and can’t want. And besides, if Daniel and that fucking Penelope Croix are about to blow up my career anyway, I might as well go down in a blaze of glory.

  I tremble. Hot, steamy, poorly-thought through but desperately wanted motel-sex-with-a-super-hot-stranger blaze of glory.

  My fingers touch the doorknob, and I swing it open.