I angle my hips, hitting the sweet spot that makes her shudder, my thumb circling her clit, slick and swollen. “Come for me, kotenok,”I urge, voice thick with love, raw with need. “Let me feel you.”
She shatters, her pussy clenching around my cock, a scream of my name tearing from her throat as another orgasm ripplesthrough her, her body trembling beneath me. I slow, drawing out her pleasure, each thrust gentle but deep, her gasps filling the air.
“I want you on top,” I murmur, kissing her hard, tongue claiming hers. I roll us again, settling on my back, the rug soft beneath me. She straddles me, her thighs strong, skin flushed, firelight painting her curves in gold and shadow. Her breasts sway, nipples hard, as she positions herself, gripping my cock and guiding it back inside her.
Her hips roll, slow at first, her womanhood swallowing me whole, inch by inch, until she’s seated fully, her head thrown back, dark curls spilling over her shoulders.
“Ride me, Teresa,” I growl, hands gripping her hips, guiding her rhythm.
She moves—confident and powerful—her hands braced on my chest, nails biting my skin. Her breasts bounce with each thrust, her pussy tight and slick, sliding up and down my cock, the wet heat driving me wild.
“You’re so deep,” she moans, eyes locked on mine, love and lust swirling in their depths. “You feel so fucking good.” Her hips grind, circling, her clit rubbing against my pelvis, and I watch her, mesmerized—her flushed cheeks, the sweat beading between her breasts, the way her thighs flex as she rides me harder, faster.
“Fuck, I’m close again,” she gasps, voice breaking.
“Give it to me,” I say, one hand cupping her breast, thumb flicking her nipple, the other sliding to her clit, rubbing tight circles. “Come on my cock,kotenok.”
She cries out, pussy pulsing as her third orgasm hits. Her body shudders as her head falls forward, curls brushing my chest. I thrust up, meeting her, chasing my own release.
“You’re fucking everything,” I groan, coming hard, my cock throbbing inside her as pleasure ripples through me, our bodies locked together.
We collapse, her body warm and perfect on my chest, the fire’s glow softening the room. I pull a blanket from the couch and wrap it around us, my lips brushing her temple.
I hold her close, my heart pounding with words I can’t say. Her eyes meet mine, soft, vulnerable, and I see the same unspoken truth trembling on her lips.She doesn’t say it out loud, fear flickering in her gaze. I hold her tighter, her breath warm against my neck.
This love—fierce yet fragile—could break us both, but I’ll burn the world down to keep it.
CHAPTER 25
TERESA
Vlad had RSVP’d to the Donetsk Foundation New Year’s Eve Gala back in the summer.
Tonight, however, dressed to impress, neither of us wants to go.
I’m zipped into a silver sheath that fits like moonlight poured over skin. My reflection tells me I look confident, but the knot in my stomach disagrees. Vlad steps out of his closet in a midnight-black tuxedo, cuff links glinting, hair brushed back with ruthless exactness. We study each other in the bedroom mirror—one tick, two. His brow lifts, mine answers. Same thought, same timing.
“Going to be a crowded room,” he says.
“Too many security sweeps,” I admit, exhaling.
He considers, then shrugs a shoulder. “We could stay. No one’s going to mind if we no-show. Dress code still applies to private dining, yes?”
I grin. “I wouldn’t dare break it.”
And that settles it.
An hour later his security courier—basically DoorDash with Kevlar—arrives bearing a three-course meal from his favorite bistro. Truffle beef Wellington, root-vegetable confit, chocolate soufflé puffed up to perfection. We keep our couture on, light two candles, and eat at the far end of the long dining table.
Vlad notes my clean plate with a satisfied, “See, gala food never tastes this good.”
We share the soufflé directly from its container, trading the spoon as we watch the city through the windows. Outside, Manhattan’s skyline glitters—taxis blaring, Times Square filled to the brim, New Year’s Eve rooftop parties layering bass lines across the cold night air.
At eleven-fifty he gestures toward the balcony. “Care to take in the festivities from the comfort of our own abode?”
My heels are aching, but I nod. He slips off his tux jacket and settles it over my shoulders, that faint cedar-and-smoke scent of him wrapping me warmer than cashmere. Together we step outside.
The terrace is glass and slate thrust over the East River. Wind nips my calves, snow whispering against the railing. We press close to the glass balustrade just as the first firework blooms—red chrysanthemum exploding into neon petals. Another follows, green comets corkscrewing up, fracturing into gold sparks that reflect in every high-rise window. The whole city becomes a house of mirrors made of fire.
