He pounds into me even harder. “You can take it.”
His grip around my throat cinches as I call out his name again.
“Aleksei…”
“Yes. That’s it.” His words are strained and volatile. “Moan for me, detka. Fucking take it all. You’re my filthy whore to use any way I want.”
The words crash through me like a lightning strike, and it’s all I need to let go. My body convulses, clenching and exploding around him in a blinding climax that rips through me with a vicious sob.
I shatter around him, my pleasure crashing through me. Still, he moves inside me, dragging out every aftershock, refusing to stop until I’m limp and quivering against the tree.
His own grunts come in quicker right before he lets out a deep-chested growl as hot spurts coat me, marking me.
Right now, I’m really grateful that I’m on the pill.
When his body finally eases, the tension in his limbs slowly dissolving, he pushes off me as though I’m made of acid, and I can’t help the way it stings.
I stay where I am, unable to turn around, to look at him and face what I let him do. My skirt is still rucked up around my hips, my panties twisted halfway down my thighs, but it’s the shame slithering higher that makes me sick inside.
My eyes close as I register his belt sliding back into place and the faint click of a zipper, right before his footsteps start away from me.
My God, what was I thinking?
I should be pissed at myself for letting this happen. For letting him in. For enjoying it.
But instead, all I can think about is how empty it feels without him.
Eventually, I peel myself off the tree and tug my panties up before drawing down my skirt with shaky hands, like smoothing the fabric can somehow undo what just happened.
I crouch to wedge my heels back on, but the second the sole hits the ground, pain rips through the back of my foot.
“Fuck—ow!”
A rustle slices through the silence behind me.
“What’s wrong?” His voice sends my heart crashing into my ribs.
I whip around, eyes wide. “Jesus!”
He emerges from the shadows, arms folded, that unreadable expression carved into his face.
Something in my chest lurches. I don’t know what stuns me more: that he stayed, or that part of me is relieved he did, though I don’t understand the reasoning behind it.
“What do you care?” I push past him with a limp I try and fail to hide.
He doesn’t let me get far. One second, I’m hobbling forward; the next, I’m airborne, scooped into his arms like I weigh nothing.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Carrying you.” His tone is dry, like it’s the most obvious answer in the world. “What does it look like?”
“I can walk just fine.”
“Of course you can,” he deadpans. “You looked really graceful back there, princessa.”
“Maybe don’t sneak up on me like some backwoods serial killer next time.”
He mutters something in Russian. Definitely a curse. “Are you always this difficult when someone is trying to help you?”
