Ivan stuffs his face deeper between my legs and my hips buck involuntarily. The thought fragments, scatters.
He adds a finger, then two, and I lose it. My eyes slam shut as the orgasm builds, crashes over me, and leaves me gasping and shaking.
"Beautiful," he murmurs against my thigh. "Absolutely beautiful when you surrender."
Before I can catch my breath, he's moving up my body, positioning himself. I'm still trembling from the first orgasm when he enters me, and the sensation is overwhelming. Too much. Perfect.
"Look at me," he commands, and I do. Those blue eyes pin me in place as he starts moving. Slow at first, almost gentle, letting me feel every inch.
This time is different from the window. More intimate. Closer. Hot. So fucking hot.
He positions me how he wants—on my back first, legs over his shoulders so he can go impossibly deep. The angle makes me gasp, makes me claw at the sheets. I can feel him everywhere, filling me.
"That's it," he murmurs, watching my face. "Let me see what I do to you."
Then he's flipping me, pulling me to my hands and knees. One hand fists in my hair. The other grips my hip hard enough to bruise. The first thrust from this angle makes me cry out.
"Fuck, you feel perfect like this." His voice is rough, strained. "Made for me."
He sets a punishing rhythm that has me pushing back against him, desperate for more. The sound of skin against skin fills the room, obscene and intoxicating.
The thought consumes me: being desired like this. This dangerous man, this killer, this mobster—wanting me so badly he can't keep his hands off me. Can't stop touching, taking, claiming.
If the cops come—and they might, any moment—these could be his last moments of freedom. And he's spending them inside me.
The realization sends another wave of heat through my body. I'm his last choice before prison. His final act of defiance. And God help me, I want to be exactly that.
He pulls out suddenly, and I whimper at the loss. Then he's flipping me again, pulling me into his lap so I'm straddling him. This position is even more intense—I can see his face, feel his breath, watch the way his jaw clenches as I sink down onto him.
"Ride me," he orders, hands on my hips, guiding the movement. "Show me how badly you want this."
I do. Moving in slow circles at first, then faster. His hands roam—my breasts, my throat, my face. Touching me everywhere like he's trying to memorize me by feel.
I watch him through half-closed eyes as we move together. The way his muscles flex with each thrust. The tattoos that mark him as Bratva, as dangerous, as mine. The scar through his eyebrow. The intensity in those blue eyes that never leave my face.
He's devastating.
"You're so fucking beautiful," he says, and it sounds like a confession. "Mine."
The possessive word makes me clench around him, and he groans.
"You like that, don't you? Being called mine."
"Yes," I admit, past shame now. "Yes."
"Say it."
"I'm yours."
"Again."
"I'm fucking yours, Ivan. Only yours."
Something in his expression shifts—fierce, triumphant, almost tender. Then we're moving faster, chasing release together.
We switch positions one more time, slipping behind me, one hand wrapped around my throat, the other between my legs. The dual sensation, the possessiveness of his grip, the absolute control he has…
"Come for me," he orders against my ear. "Come on my cock like a good girl."
