“Look at me.”
I drag my eyes up to his face, and he’s watching me with an intensity that makes my breath catch.
“I almost lost you tonight.” His voice is raw. “That bullet was six inches from your head.”
“I know.”
“I would have burned this city to the ground.” He positions himself at my entrance and pushes in just enough that I feel the stretch, the promise of what’s coming. “I would have killed every person in that theater with my bare hands.”
“I know.” And god help me, I believe him.
He drives in. One brutal thrust, no mercy, and my body splits open around him, and the sound that rips out of me is animal. He bottoms out with a grunt, balls pressed tight against my ass, and holds there while I shake and gasp and try to remember how to breathe around the invasion.
“Fuck—” I dig my nails into his shoulders, drawing blood. “Oh fuck, you’re so—”
“Take it.” He pulls back and slams in again, and stars burst behind my eyes. “Take all of it.”
He sets a punishing pace, long brutal strokes that punch the air from my lungs, that make my toes curl, and my nails rake down his back, leaving red lines in their wake. He’s in my spine, in my teeth, in the soles of my feet. The dresser rocks with every thrust, and something glass falls and shatters, but neither of us stops.
The knife is back against my throat, and I’m reminded exactly who’s in control here.
“Harder,” I beg. “Fuck me harder, I need—”
He growls something in Russian that sounds like a curse and a prayer at once, and his hips snap faster, driving deeper, and my orgasm builds from somewhere deep in my belly, inevitable and terrifying.
“I’m going to—” I can’t finish the sentence.
“Ask permission.”
“Please.” I’m crying again, tears streaming down my face. “Please let me come, I need to come, please, Roman, please—”
“Come.” His thumb finds my clit and presses hard. “Come with my knife on your throat and my cock inside you. Show me who you fucking belong to.”
I shatter.
It’s ugly and wet and violent, my whole body convulsing, my cunt spasming so hard around his cock that it almosthurts. I scream into his shoulder and bite down, tasting blood—his blood. He follows a breath later, his hips stuttering, heat flooding my insides as he groans my name against my bleeding throat.
We stay like that for a long moment, him still buried inside me, both of us shaking, the knife finally lowered but still in his hand. His cum is leaking out around his cock where we’re still joined. I can feel the sting of the cut on my throat.
“Color?”
“Green.” I sound wrecked. “I’m okay. I’m good.”
He eases out of me slowly, and I wince at the loss, at the sudden emptiness. He sets the knife down on the dresser, and then his hands are gentle—so gentle it makes my chest ache—as he lifts me and carries me to the bed.
“Stay.”
He disappears into the bathroom, and water is running. I lie there staring at the ceiling, my whole body trembling with aftershocks, his cum cooling between my thighs. When he comes back, he has a warm washcloth and a first aid kit, and he sits on the edge of the bed and cleans the blood from my throat with careful strokes.
“Surface cut. It won’t scar.”
“I don’t care if it scars.”
He bandages the cut with butterfly strips and then uses the washcloth to clean between my legs, wiping away the mess of his cum and my arousal. It’s more intimate than the fucking. More terrifying.
When he’s done, he lies down beside me and pulls me against his chest. His heart pounding almost as hard as mine, the tremor in his arms telling me he’s not as composed as he pretends.
He reaches for the knife and presses the handle into my palm.
