My little bird tried to remain awake.
Fight tooth and nail for it by clawing my face, and back, she even tried to slap me across the face and eventually gave up. Her gaze angry but she couldn’t help the moan that escaped her sinful lips as I pushed in deeper.
And f**k.
I was hard again.
My little bird wasn’t afraid. Not yet. That defiance in her eyes, red from crying fueled the madness in me.
She was perfect. Small, with wide hips begging to be gripped, a round ass that I couldn’t stop marking. Her n*****s, perky and sensitive, were just waiting for the torment I had in store. And her eyes—those red, tear-filled eyes—tempted me, driving me to the edge of insanity.
I planned to break her, to use her, to turn her into bait for Ivan Morozov. But first, I’d make sure she knew exactly who
