My hand tightens incrementally on her throat, not cuttingoff air, just holding. Just reminding her who's in control of this, of her, of everything.
"Say it," I command. "Say whose you are."
"Yours." The word comes out broken, desperate, perfect. "I'm yours."
"Louder. Let the city hear you admit it."
"I'm yours!" She's trembling now, so close to the edge I can feel it. "Ivan, please?—"
"Please, what? Use your words like a good girl."
"Please don't stop. Please—fuck—please make me yours."
The plea destroys what's left of my control.
I drive into her harder, relentlessly, watching her reflection in the glass overlay the city lights. Her face slack with pleasure, mouth open in a silent scream, eyes half-closed in bliss. She's devastating like this. Completely wrecked.
"Come for me," I order. "Come while Chicago watches you surrender to me."
She does, screaming my name loud enough that I'm sure someone forty stories down must hear it. Her body convulses around me, hands sliding down the glass, leaving long trails through the fog and charcoal. The orgasm rips through her violently, leaving her shaking, gasping, and completely undone.
I follow seconds later, buried as deep as I can get, my own shout of release swallowed by the city noise below.
We stay frozen for a long moment. Her plastered against the window, me pressed into her back, both of us panting like we've run for miles. The glass is a complete mess—handprints, smudges, and our breath’s fog creating an abstract mural. Evidence that will be visible in daylight.
Good. Let the window washers see it. Let them know.
Slowly, carefully, I release her throat. She sags immediately, and I catch her before she can fall, turning her to face me. Her legs won't hold her weight, so I lift her easily. She wraps around me instinctively, face buried in my neck.
"Okay?" I ask, softer now.
"Better than okay." Her voice muffles against my skin, hoarse from screaming. "That was?—"
"Better than the drawing?"
"So much better."
I set her down gently, steadying her until her legs remember how to function. She takes a tentative step toward the bedroom, then another, finding her balance.
"By the way," she says, glancing back at me. "I found my clothes. In the closet. There was no laundry."
"I know."
"You just wanted me naked."
"I wanted you accessible." I lean against the window frame, watching her walk away. "Don’t twist it."
She rolls her eyes, but she's smiling as she heads for the bedroom. The shirt has fallen back down, but barely covers her ass. Each step gives me a flash of skin, a reminder of what's mine.
My cock, which should be satisfied, stirs with interest.
She's almost to the doorway when I move.
One stride, two, and I have her. She yelps as I lift her, throwing her over my shoulder in one swift motion.
"Ivan! What are you?—"
"Shh," I say, carrying her toward the bedroom.
