We start with fresh burrata, its center spilling like cream when the knife cuts it open. Dmitri pushes a piece toward me, bread still warm in his fingers. I take it from him, bite, and close my eyes at the salt of olive oil and the sweetness of tomato. He watches me with a look that makes the whole room disappear.
By the time the gnocchi arrives, pillowy, rich with browned butter and crisp sage, I'm laughing at something he said about the stubbornness of Reza's parish committee. He takes his wine in slow sips, his hands steady on the stem, his voice quieter than usual, as if this place has granted him permission to be something softer.
We share the poached pears last, their skin stained deep red from wine, the flesh tender. He lifts a spoonful to my mouth, and when I take it, the sweetness lingers on my tongue. It feels like communion.
Walking out into the cold night, the air sharp with woodsmoke, I feel lightheaded—not from the wine, but from the luxury of ease. His hand settles at my back as we approach the car, not possessive, just steady. When he opens the door for me, I see the reflection of us in the window—two people who, for once, could be mistaken for ordinary.
We don't speak much on the drive. The city blurs by in streaks of light, and I rest my hand on his thigh, just above the shift of muscle. His knuckles whiten on the wheel, not because he resists but because he feels it as sharply as I do.
At a quiet stretch of road, he pulls over, the hum of the engine filling the silence. My heart beats too fast, and thestillness between us breaks all at once when I climb across the console into his lap. The leather seats creak, my skirt riding high, my thighs straddling him.
"Valya," he says, low, warning and want tangled together.
"Shut up," I whisper against his mouth, kissing him hard, tasting wine and winter air. His hands grip my hips, pulling me down against the hardness straining his trousers. I grind against him, heat sparking sharply where our bodies meet.
The windows fog quickly, our breaths misting the glass. I tug at his shirt, needing skin, needing him. He groans when I roll my hips, the sound raw, the kind of sound that feels like it belongs only to me.
His hand slides up my thigh, pushing fabric aside, fingers brushing where I'm already slick and aching. I moan into his mouth, biting his lip, the car rocking slightly under us. His other hand fists in my hair, holding me to him as if the world might try to pry us apart. The gearshift digs into my hip, the space too tight, but I don't care. I want him here, like this, where nothing exists but heat and hunger. His fingers slip against me, teasing, and I cry out, the sound muffled against his shoulder. "Don't tease," I breathe, nails dragging across his chest. "I'll lose my mind."
He smirks against my neck, but his breathing is ragged, and his fingers press deeper. The car fills with the wet sounds of me opening under him, the windows trembling with each gasp and grind. The cramped space forces us into angles that feel desperate and obscene. His fingers leave me wet and throbbing, and when he draws them away I whimper at the loss. He pulls at my hips, guiding me forward until the head of his cock nudges against me. I gasp at the heat, thethickness, and then he thrusts up, sliding deep inside with a force that makes the breath tear out of me.
The car rocks with the impact, the leather seat squeaking beneath us. My skirt is bunched around my waist, my blouse gaping open, my bra pushed up so my breasts spill into his hands. He squeezes them hard, rough palms circling my nipples until I cry out, his mouth swallowing the sound in a bruising kiss.
I brace one hand on the fogged window, the other clawing at his shoulder, while he drives into me from beneath, the angle sharp, filling me so deep I can't think. Every thrust grinds my clit against the hard muscle of his pelvis, every stroke pulling a louder moan out of my throat.
I shift, arching my back, and he seizes the chance by pulling my body closer, pushing me down until my knees press into the console on either side of him. The position opens me to him completely, no hiding, no defense. His cock slams into me with a loud thrust, and I ride it, riding him, breasts bouncing against his chest, my lips crushed to his in frantic kisses. "Look at you," he groans against my mouth, one hand pinching my nipple, the other dragging down my spine. "So hungry for me that you'll take me in a car like a sinner at confession."
I bite his lip hard enough to taste blood, grinding down on him until he snarls. He pulls me into his mouth, kissing me so deep I forget my own name, and then he thrusts up harder, pounding into me until the seatbelt buckle digs into my thigh. I wrap my arms around his neck, my breasts pressed to his face, his tongue circling my nipple even as he fucks up into me. The sensation makes my whole body quake, moans spilling from me without thought, everynerve caught between his mouth and the relentless drive of his cock.
The windows are opaque now, fogged completely, the outside world erased. There is only him, only this, only the rough slide of his cock inside me and his mouth at my breast, sucking until my back arches in helpless pleasure. He breaks from my nipple to kiss me again, hot and messy, tongues clashing, our teeth knocking. His breath is ragged, his words swallowed between thrusts. "You feel… so fucking good… Valya."
The gearshift jabs my side, but I don't care. I roll my hips against him, angling until the head of his cock drags right against the spot inside that makes me scream. He feels it, knows it, and slams into that place over and over until my nails rake down his back and I'm shaking in his lap, but then his grip shifts. With a growl he seizes my waist and flips us, dragging me forward so my chest hits the fogged window. My palms slap against the glass, warm with my breath, the cold night just beyond.
"Stay there," he rasps behind me, and before I can catch my breath, he's inside me again, driving deep from behind. The new angle makes me cry out, cheek pressed to the glass as the car rocks under the rhythm of his thrusts.
The window rattles with every slam of his hips. My nipples flatten against the cold surface, sensitive and aching, and he reaches around to squeeze one breast hard, pinching until I sob. His mouth is at my ear, his teeth grazing, his breath hot against my skin.
"You love this," he growls, pounding harder. "Pressed up like a slut where anyone could see if they looked close enough."
I moan, the sound breaking into a scream as his cock hits that spot deep inside, relentless, sharp and perfect. My hand smears the condensation on the window as I claw for purchase, my body arching helplessly.
He thrusts faster, one arm wrapped around me, palming my breast, the other hand between my thighs, rubbing me as he fucks me into the glass. The pressure is unbearable, sweet and violent all at once.
"Dmitri—" I gasp, voice strangled. "I'm–I'm going to?—"
"Come for me," he snarls, thrusting so hard the car jolts. "Now."
I shatter, my body convulsing, the orgasm ripping through me like fire in my veins. My cunt clamps down on him, pulsing, gushing down his cock, and I scream his name against the window as my vision goes white.
He groans, a sound torn from his chest, and drives into me with punishing force, holding me flush to the glass as he spills inside me. Hot, deep, filling me in heavy pulses until my legs buckle. He keeps me pinned there, his weight anchoring me as his cock throbs, grinding into me until every last drop is buried inside.
For a long moment, there is only the sound of our breathing, ragged and harsh, the fogged window trembling under our bodies. His forehead rests against the back of my neck, his chest heaving. I can feel the smear of sweat where his mouth presses to my skin and the slow, lazy aftershocks still pulsing through my core.
"Valya," he mutters finally, voice hoarse, almost reverent. His arms tighten around me, one hand still cupping my breast,the other splayed across my stomach as if he could keep me there forever. And though no vow is spoken, it feels like prayer.
He stays inside me for a long moment, his chest pressed to my back, our breaths rough and tangled. Then he eases out, his hands steadying me when my knees wobble. He pulls my skirt down gently, smoothing it over my thighs, then cups my face and kisses me softer than he has all night. His lips taste of salt and sweat, of something that feels almost like apology. He strokes damp hair back from my cheek and tucks it behind my ear, careful, patient, as if we have all the time in the world. "Come," he says quietly, and helps me settle into the passenger seat. He straightens his coat over me like a blanket before starting the car again. The engine hums low, carrying us through the quiet streets, headlights spilling across snowbanks.
Neither of us speaks. His hand stays on the wheel, but sometimes, his knuckles brush against mine where they rest on the console. Each touch feels like a word he doesn't know how to say out loud. At the estate, he walks me upstairs, not letting go until we reach my room. I should let him go, I should remind him that I can sleep alone, but I don't. He undresses me slowly, not with hunger this time but with something close to reverence, and then pulls me against him under the covers.
