Oh God.
The first thrust steals my breath. Punches it right out of my lungs. He doesn't ease in, doesn't give me time to adjust, doesn't do any of that gentle, considerate stuff. Just takes. Claims. Pushes in hard and deep, and suddenly he's filling me completely, and I can't think, can't breathe, can only feel.
My back slides against the polished wood with each brutal thrust. The surface is slick now. The movement pushes me across the table. My hand flails out to steady myself and knocks over a glass.
It rolls over the edge and shatters on the floor with a crash that barely registers.
I don't care.
Papers scatter under me. Someone's report. Charts maybe.Graphs with numbers and projections. Important documents that are now getting crumpled and ruined.
I don't care about those either.
All I care about is this—the stretch of him inside me, the almost-too-much fullness, the way he fills me so completely I can't tell where he ends and I begin. The way he looks at me like I'm a conquest. A claim. His.
I moan. The sound escapes before I can stop it, echoing in the empty room, probably carrying down the hallway where Pyotr can hear, where anyone can hear.
"That's it," he growls,. "Let them hear you. Let everyone know who you belong to."
He pulls out suddenly, and I whimper at the loss. Empty. Wrong. I need him back.
But then I’m lifted again, carried across the room like I'm nothing. My back hits the wall, and the impact should hurt, but it doesn't. Instead, I gasp, and my legs wrap around his waist automatically, no thought required, only instinct.
And he's inside me again.
This angle is different. Deeper. Hitting places that make me see actual stars, make my head fall back against the wall, make sounds come out of my mouth that I didn't know I could make.
Every surface. He's claiming every surface with us. With this. The table, the wall; the floor next if we keep going. Marking his territory in the most primal way possible.
"You've been silent," he says against my throat, and I can feel his smile against my skin.
Silent? I've been moaning like—oh. He means talking. Words. Those things I usually have too many of.
"Can't help it." The words come out broken by his movements. "You're making it hard to think."
"Good." Another thrust, perfectly timed with the word. "Don't think. Feel."
"I'm feeling—oh God—I'm feeling everything." Too much. Not enough. "I'm feeling more than I ever imagined."
He shifts his angle, and I cry out, fingers digging into his shoulders hard enough to leave crescent moons from my nails. Evidence. Proof this happened.
Perfect. Let him have proof tomorrow. Let him feel my marks and remember this.
"What happens to Dmitri?"
Why am I asking this now? Why is my brain even functioning enough to form questions when I can barely remember my own name?
Ivan's movements slow but don't stop. A steady roll of his hips that maintains the pressure, the fullness, while he considers my question. "You know what happens."
I swallow hard. My throat feels tight. He'll die. That's what happens. That's what Ivan does to people who disrespect him, who threaten what's his, who try to take me away.
Dmitri will die because of me. Because Ivan chose me. Because I'm here instead of gone.
"How do you feel about that?"
The question hangs. This is a test. Or maybe he genuinely wants to know if I'm okay with what he is. With what he does. If I can accept this part of him along with the rest.
"If he'll get between us..." I whisper, then pause, feeling the weight of what I'm about to say. About the line I'm about to cross. "Then I don't care."
