"Ride me," he commanded, guiding my hips. "Take what you want."
I gripped his shaft, my hand barely wrapping around its impressive thickness—it was so big, so slippery from my wetness. I positioned it at my entrance and tried to lower myself, but it slipped away, sliding over my clit instead, sending jolts of pleasure through me.
"Try again," he urged, his voice husky.
I did, but it happened again—the head glided along my folds,teasing my sensitive nub, making me gasp and drip even more. The frustration built, heightening the ache. I tried a third time, the slickness making it maddeningly elusive, each miss rubbing just right and drawing more slick from me.
"Igor, please... I need you inside," I begged, my voice desperate.
He chuckled darkly, then gripped my hips and thrust up from below, impaling me in one smooth motion. I moaned at the sudden fullness, but he didn't move. "Now you do it. Fuck yourself on my cock."
I braced my hands on his chest, feeling the hard muscles under my palms, and started moving. Slowly at first, lifting and lowering, getting used to the angle. It hit even deeper this way, stretching me perfectly. As I adapted, I sped up, bouncing harder, my breasts jiggling in front of his face.
He grabbed them, squeezing and kneading roughly, thumbs flicking over my nipples. "That's it, ride me like you mean it," he groaned.
My thighs burned, but the pleasure overrode everything. I rode him faster, grinding down, chasing that high. When fatigue set in, he took over—his strong hands clamped onto my ass, slamming me down while he thrust up, burying himself balls-deep with every stroke. My flat stomach bulged slightly from how deep he reached.
"Feel that?" he said, taking one of my hands and pressing it to my abdomen. "Feel how deep I'm fucking you?"
I nodded, moaning as I felt the rhythmic bulge, his cock reshaping me from the inside. The sensation pushed me over the edge again and again—orgasms ripping through me in quick succession, my walls clenching around him, milking him.
"Wait for me," he growled, his thrusts turning erratic. "Come with me."
One final, brutal slam, and we shattered together, his release flooding me as I screamed, our bodies locked in ecstasy.
I shattered beneath him, the world exploding into white light.
Blinding white. When my vision cleared, I wasn't in that rundown apartment anymore. I was in a church, sunlight streaming through stained-glass windows, the organ playing a wedding march.
I stood in the crowd, watching that familiar towering figure at the altar.
Igor, in a sharp black tux, looked devastatingly handsome, his deep green eyes locked on the woman beside him in a white gown.
Natasha. Tall, gorgeous, flawless—like a princess. Her dark hair gleamed under the veil, her smile triumphant and smug.
"You may kiss the bride," the priest said.
No. I screamed inside.
Igor leaned in, cupping her face just like he'd cupped mine. Then he kissed her.
Guests clapped and cheered. I stood there, my heart ripping apart.
"No!" I found my voice, screaming. "Igor! No!"
But he didn't hear. No one did. They kept kissing, laughing, while I crumbled.
"No!"
I bolted upright, gasping, soaked in cold sweat. Darkness surrounded me. I wasn't in a church. I was in my new apartment in Tuscany, on my bed. Just a dream, but tears streaked my face.
I glanced out the window; dawn was breaking, soft light slipping through the curtain gaps, painting thin stripes on the floor. Tuscany mornings were quiet, broken only by distant birdsong and church bells.
I sucked in a breath, willing my heart to slow. That damn dream.
The first half was true. The shootout, the meeting, bringing Igor home, giving him my virginity. All real. Seven months ago, at the Winter Palace Hotel, the night that changed my life.
Afterward, we dove into dating. He bought me pretty dresses, took me to fancy restaurants. Late nights, he'd speed us up mountains, kissing under the stars. All so sweet.
