I can’t help the sounds that pour out of me—needy, helpless, wanton. He eats me like he’s starving, two fingerssliding inside me, crooking and pressing against that spot until my legs nearly buckle.
He holds me steady, relentless, his tongue never letting up until I break, hips jerking as I come hard against his mouth, a cry ripped from my throat.
He stands and wipes his mouth, eyes dark with satisfaction. He undresses quickly, shedding shirt and trousers, cock thick and flushed, already leaking.
I reach for him, needing to touch, to feel. He lets me wrap my hand around his length, stroking him, marveling at the heat and weight in my grip.
“On the bed,” he growls, voice ragged. I obey, lying back and spreading my legs in invitation. He kneels between my thighs, stroking himself as he looks down at me. His gaze burns over every inch of me, possessive and adoring all at once.
He lines up and pushes inside, thick head stretching me open inch by inch. The pressure is exquisite—almost too much, just enough. He fills me slowly, watching my face, waiting for me to adjust. When he’s fully seated, hips pressed flush to mine, he groans low and curses in Russian, forehead dropping to my shoulder.
He starts to move with slow, deep thrusts at first, savoring the feel of my cunt gripping him, the wet heat drawing him deeper. He pulls nearly all the way out before driving back in, harder each time, his hips snapping against mine.
I meet him thrust for thrust, greedy for every inch, moaning his name like a prayer.
He fucks me hard, relentless, each stroke claiming me, marking me as his. He lifts one of my legs over his shoulder, changing the angle, hitting that spot inside that makes me sob and claw at his back.
Sweat slicks our skin, our bodies moving in perfect rhythm, every sound amplified in the dim, candlelit room.
His fingers find my clit, rubbing tight, fast circles as he pounds into me.
“Come for me,” he commands, voice a snarl against my neck. I shatter around him, pussy spasming, pulsing with pleasure so sharp I see stars. He keeps moving, fucking me through it, chasing his own release.
His thrusts grow rougher, more frantic, hips stuttering as he loses control. He buries himself deep, groaning my name as he spills inside me, cock twitching as he fills me with hot, thick spurts of cum.
He stays inside, panting, kissing my throat, my shoulder, every inch of skin he can reach.
For a while, we just lie there—his body heavy over mine, breath mingling, sweat cooling between us. He pulls out slowly, gently, pressing a lingering kiss to my lips before rolling to his side and gathering me close, hand possessive on my waist.
I lie there, heart still racing, his cum leaking from between my thighs, the ache of him still thrumming inside me. He’s silent, but his hand never leaves my body, thumb stroking lazy circles on my hip.
I know I should feel guilt, fear, regret. But what I feel is longing, raw and hungry. I slip from his arms before dawn, dressing in silence, trying to wash him from my skin.
The bathroom mirror reflects a woman I barely recognize: flushed, hair wild, lips bruised from his kisses.
I scrub myself under the scalding water, fingertips pressed hard against my skin, as if I can erase the memory of his touch, his mouth, the way he whispered my name in the dark.
His scent lingers—smoke and sweat and the salt of sex—refusing to fade, even as the water runs hot and then cold.
I pull on a robe and return to my room, heart hammering in my chest. I close the door, slide down with my back to it, drawing my knees up as morning seeps in around the curtains. My whole body aches, hips sore from the force of him. I should be angry. I should be sick with shame.
All I can feel is the way my body thrums at the thought of his hands, the way my core clenches, already craving more.
I bury my face in my hands, breath coming in shudders. There’s no safety in this place—not from the dangers outside, not from the man who calls himself my husband, and certainly not from my own traitorous need.
I wonder if he’s awake. I wonder if he’s searching for me, if he’s as lost in the aftermath as I am.
Still damp from the shower, I dry off and pull on the thin nightdress I find folded at the end of the bed.
I hesitate at the doorway, heart hammering, then quietly slide back under the sheets. The room smells like him—smoke and sweat and the lingering sweetness of sex.
I lie on my side, facing the window, trying to pretend my mind isn’t racing with every memory of his mouth on my skin.
There’s hardly time to settle before Lukyan moves beside me, still half asleep. He rolls over, instinctively seeking my warmth, and without opening his eyes, he drapes an arm over my waist.
His hand spreads wide, fingers splaying against my belly as he pulls me closer. I feel the weight of him, protective and possessive, and for a moment, I let myself breathe.
I tell myself I should push him away. Instead, I close my eyes and allow his touch to settle me. The thud of his heart at myback grounds me, anchoring me in a way that’s as terrifying as it is comforting. I don’t know what tomorrow will bring, but for now, I let myself be held, safe and claimed, whether I want it or not.
