“Say it,” I demanded, holding myself back, sweat beading on my forehead from the effort. “Tell me who I am.”
“My husband,” she sobbed, lifting her hips.
“That’s right.”
I drove into her. One long, smooth stroke that buried me to the hilt. We both groaned, a guttural, animalistic sound of relief. She was so tight, her inner walls clamping down on me like a fist, milking me instantly.
“Fuck, you feel incredible,” I swore, withdrawing slowly only to slam back in. “So tight. Perfect for me.”
We found a rhythm that was less about romance and more about possession. I fucked her with deep, punishing strokes, grinding my pubic bone against her clitoris with every thrust. The sound of wet skin slapping against skin filled the room, mixed with her gasps and my rough breathing.
“Look at me,” I commanded.
She opened her heavy-lidded eyes, locking her gaze with mine.
“I’m going to ruin you for anyone else,” I promised, driving deeper, hitting her cervix. “I’m going to fill you up until you can’t walk straight. Until all you feel is me.”
“Yes,” she hissed. “Yes, please.”
The friction built to a fever pitch. She tightened around me, her body convulsing in the first waves of a climax. Feeling her unravel shattered my control. I let go of her hands to grab her hips, anchoring her against the mattress as I pounded into her, harder, faster, desperate to get as deep as physically possible.
“Barbara!” I roared, her name tearing from my throat.
She screamed as she went over the edge, clamping down on me hard. I followed her a second later, my vision going white as I poured myself into her, pulsing wave after wave of hot seed deep inside her womb. I held her tight, grinding into her, making sure she took every drop.
We collapsed together, hearts hammering against each other’s ribs like war drums. I rolled to the side but kept her pulled flush against me, my leg thrown over hers to keep her close. The air smelled of sex and sweat and satisfied lust.
The room finally went quiet. That heavy, post-ecstasy silence where the only sound left is breathing—the slow, uneven rhythm of two bodies trying to calm down. I thought she might pass out. Hell, I almost let her. But when my hand slid down toher hip, the grip familiar and possessive, I felt her flinch, and I knew she thought I was done.
I wasn’t.
I shifted down the mattress, lowering myself until my face hovered above her stomach. The air was cool on her skin, but my breath made her shiver. She whispered my name—weak, wrecked.
“Kirill…I can’t. I’m empty.”
I smiled against her skin. God, she had no idea.
“You’re never empty for me,” I murmured. “And I am certainly not done with you.”
I wrapped my hands around her thighs and parted them easily. She was still marked up beautifully—handprints fading on her hips, the inside of her thighs gleaming with the mess I’d left. Most men would clean it away.
Not me.
This was mine, and I wanted to taste what I’d done.
I lowered my head, dragging my tongue up the inside of her thigh—slow, deliberate, claiming her all over again. The sound she made had my cock throbbing. She gasped, her hips jerking, her body instinctively begging even if her mouth said she couldn’t take more.
“You taste like me,” I growled, lifting my eyes to meet hers. “You have no idea how much that turns me on.”
I didn’t touch her clit yet. Not when I could make her tremble just by kissing along her groin, letting my stubble scrape the sensitive skin and watching goosebumps rise across her whole body. Her thighs opened wider without me asking. Perfect.
I blew softly on her entrance, loving the way she whined—soft, needy, helpless.
“Do you want more?” I asked, circling her rim with my tongue, already knowing the answer.
“I…I don’t know,” she whispered—lying through her teeth, slick and ready again.
“Liar.”
