"Come," Zakhar orders against my ear.
I come with a cry that gets lost in the roar of celebration. The orgasm crashes through me in waves that seem endless, and Zakhar's hand doesn't stop, working me through every pulse and shudder until I'm gasping against the railing, my entire body shaking with the force of it.
"Good girl," he praises, voice rough with approval and barely restrained desire. "So fucking perfect. Look how beautifully you fall apart for me."
I hear the sound of his zipper. Feel him moving behind me. The rustle of fabric. The blunt pressure of his cock against my entrance, hot and hard and demanding.
Then he pushes in. Just the tip. Shallow. Discreet enough that anyone glancing up would see nothing unusual. Just a couple standing close together at the balcony railing, watching the match like hundreds of other spectators.
But I feel him everywhere. The stretch. The fullness even from just this shallow penetration. The way he fills me with justthese careful thrusts that somehow hit every nerve ending while looking completely innocent to casual observation.
"Watch the game," he murmurs, his hands settling on my hips with possessive weight. "We're not done yet."
He moves inside me with slow, controlled motions. In. Out. Never deep enough to be obvious.
It's maddening. Having him inside me but not fully. Feeling pleasure building again but unable to chase it properly. Being filled but not enough. Stretched but not satisfied.
My hands grip the railing so hard my fingers ache. My body wants to push back against him, to take him deeper, but I force myself to stay still. To accept what he's giving me and wait for permission for more.
Below us, the match continues. Back and forth. The ball moving between teams with dizzying speed. Players colliding and separating. Horses wheeling in tight circles. The crowd reacting to every brilliant play with enthusiasm that provides perfect cover for the small sounds escaping my throat.
Zakhar's hands grip my hips harder. His breathing grows heavier against my neck, hot puffs of air that make me shiver. But his rhythm stays controlled. Shallow. Torturous. Every thrust a promise of more that he's deliberately withholding.
"Please," I breathe, the word barely audible over the noise of the match.
"Not yet." His voice is strained now, control fraying at the edges. "Wait for the next goal. Show me you can be patient."
I watch the field through a haze of need. Every shallow thrust winds me tighter. Every controlled motion makes me want to scream with frustration. My body is a live wire, every nerve ending firing, pleasure building in waves that have nowhere to break.
The game intensifies. The riders clash in the center of the field, mallets swinging in a blur of motion. A player breaks free from the tangle of horses and men. Charges toward the goal with single-minded determination. Lines up the shot.
I stop breathing. My entire body tenses.
The mallet connects. The ball sails through the air. Passes between the posts.
The crowd roars again, louder this time.
Zakhar thrusts deep, finally, burying himself completely inside me, and I cry out as the orgasm rips through me. Stronger than the first. More intense. Wave after wave of pleasure so acute it borders on pain.
We stand there, both breathing hard, his forehead pressed against my shoulder, his body still joined with mine. The world slowly comes back into focus. The crowd noise. The horses. The sunlight warm on our skin.
He pulls out slowly. Steps back to give me space to breathe and collect myself.
I take a moment to steady my breathing. To smooth my dress back into place. To make sure my appearance doesn't scream what we just did.
"Your turn," I say, voice steadier than I expected.
His eyebrow raises.
"Now you get to root for a team to score." I sink down to my haunches slowly, maintaining eye contact the entire time, watching his expression shift from confusion to understanding to raw hunger. "Hands on the railing."
Understanding crosses his face. Followed immediately by desire so intense it makes my breath catch.
He positions himself facing the field, hands gripping the railing like I ordered. His cock is still hard, still glistening with evidence of what we just did, and the sight of him like this, following my command, sends a thrill of power through me.
I take him into my mouth without preamble.
The taste is salt and sex and him. Complex and masculine and unexpectedly intoxicating. I start slow, just the tip, swirling my tongue around the head in lazy circles while my hand wraps around the base to stroke what I can't yet reach.
