I try to step past him, meaning to return to my book, or maybe just to put a little distance between his gaze and the heat building low in my belly.
He’s faster. His hand finds my wrist, his touch featherlight but inescapable—an electric charge shooting through my veins. I meet his eyes, intending to pull away, to preserve the boundary we’ve both pretended was real.
Something inside me breaks. The days of circling, the sharp words, the silences and stolen looks. Suddenly, the distance is gone, collapsed in a single breath.
He draws me closer. I go willingly, my body betraying every defense my mind tries to muster. The kiss is inevitable.
He pauses, his mouth hovering over mine as if asking permission. I answer by leaning in, brushing my lips over his. It’s slow at first—almost cautious, a question asked in soft gasps and the press of his hand at my waist.
Then the world narrows to this moment. He deepens the kiss, his tongue sliding against mine, coaxing, teasing, making me open for him. My hands go to his chest, feeling the heat of him, the steady pound of his heart. He handles me like I’m both precious and dangerous, his touch reverent but rough, fingers sliding up my arm, tracing the line of my jaw.
He breaks the kiss just long enough to whisper my name, voice cracked open, vulnerable. “Clara…”
The sound of it shatters the last of my resistance. I tug him closer, letting him back me toward the old velvet sofa, my knees hitting the cushion. He follows, hands finding my hips, sliding under my shirt, palms broad and hot against my bare skin. He pulls me into his lap, my thighs straddling his, the fabric of my dress bunching around my waist.
I gasp as his mouth finds my neck, teeth grazing the sensitive skin. He sucks a mark into the hollow beneath my jaw, his hands moving up, cupping my breasts through the thin cotton. I arch into him, moaning as his thumbs find my nipples, rolling them between calloused fingers until they peak, aching for more.
“God, you’re beautiful,” he growls, dragging the dress over my head, leaving me bare to the flickering firelight.
He takes his time, mouth tracing a line down my throat, my collarbone, teeth scraping my shoulder, lips soft and worshipful against the swell of my breast.
My hands fumble with his shirt, tugging it up, desperate for the feel of his skin. He helps, pulling it off in one swift motion, tossing it aside. I run my hands over his chest, mapping old scars, memorizing the way his muscles tense beneath my touch.
His hands go to my hips, grinding me down against the hard length of him, only thin fabric separating us. I shiver, wet and wanting, clinging to his shoulders as he rocks up, letting me feel every inch of him.
His fingers slide between my thighs, teasing me through the soaked lace. I whimper, hips bucking, shameless as I beg him for more. He obliges, slipping his fingers beneath the edge of my underwear, finding me slick and swollen, ready. He circles my clit, slow and relentless, watching my face as I fall apart for him.
“Please,” I gasp, nails digging into his back. “Lukyan, please—”
He growls again, fingers sliding inside me, fucking me with slow, deep thrusts. I ride his hand, gasping, moaning, the storm outside matching the wild rhythm of my heart. When I come, it’s with his name on my lips, my body shaking, clinging to him like he’s the only solid thing left in the world.
He doesn’t give me time to recover. He stands, lifting me in his arms, carrying me to the rug in front of the fire. He peels off my underwear, tossing it aside, and kneels between my legs. His mouth finds my core, tongue working slow circles over my clit, tasting me, devouring me. I writhe, breathless, lost in the heat and the want and the thunder shaking the glass.
He sits back, unbuckling his pants, shoving them down enough to free himself. I reach for him, wrapping my hand around his cock, marveling at the size, the heat, the way he shudders when I stroke him.
He groans, catches my wrist, and pins it above my head as he pushes inside me, slow at first, letting me feel the stretch, the fullness.
“Look at me,” he rasps, and I do, eyes locked as he sinks deep, filling me completely. He moves, finding a rhythm that’s both brutal and tender, hips snapping, hand fisted in my hair, his mouth finding mine again and again.
The world disappears—just the storm, the fire, the way our bodies fit, the sound of skin on skin, the taste of his sweat on my lips.
We move together, equal parts need and relief, every thrust a promise, every moan an answer. When he finally spills inside me, he murmurs my name against my throat, voice broken, worshipful. I cling to him, trembling, letting the waves of pleasure wash everything else away.
We collapse together, the only sound the frantic rush of rain and the wild rhythm of our breath. His body is heavy over mine, anchoring me to the rug, our sweat-slick skin sliding as he shifts, never breaking contact.
I keep my legs hooked around his hips, keeping him deep inside me, savoring the fullness, the sweet ache. He brushes the hair from my face, eyes hungry and reverent, mouth trailing down my jaw, over my throat, his teeth grazing the pulse hammering there.
I run my hands up his back, feeling every scar, every ridge of muscle. He moves again, slower now, rolling his hips withlazy, shallow thrusts that make me gasp—each one coaxing little aftershocks of pleasure from my spent body.
I shudder, clinging tighter, unable to let him go, not ready for the world to intrude.
He kisses me, slow and deep, his tongue coaxing, exploring, tasting the moans he draws from my lips. I rock against him, and he groans, the sound raw, his cock thickening inside me again. I gasp as he pulls nearly all the way out, then slides back in with exquisite care, stretching me, filling me, owning me in a way that goes deeper than the body.
He presses my hands above my head, pinning me with his weight, his other hand sliding down to cup my breast, thumb circling my nipple until I arch, wanting more. He bends his head, taking me into his mouth, sucking and biting until I’m whimpering beneath him, every nerve on fire.
“You’re perfect,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “Mine.”
“Yes,” I breathe, shameless, lost in the pleasure and the need. “Yours. Please don’t stop.”
