“That’s right.” I pull back and thrust hard, and she screams. “Say it again.”
“Yours—I’m yours—fuck—”
I shift angles and find the spot where my cock and the plug converge, and her scream is so loud I’m sure the guards outside can hear it. Good. Let them hear. Let them know what I do to her. Let them understand that she’s mine.
“Who do you belong to?” I pound into her harder, one hand gripping her hip, the other pressing the plug deeper on every thrust.
“You—” She’s crying now, tears streaming down her face, but her hips are bucking up to meet every stroke. “I belong to you—”
“Say my name.”
“Roman—” Her nails tear into my shoulders. “Roman, please, I need to come—”
“Ask permission.”
“Please let me come—” Her voice is ragged. “Please, I can’t—I need—”
“Come.” I bury myself to the hilt and press her clit with my thumb. “Konchi dlya menya.”
She shatters.
The orgasm rips through her—pussy clenching so hard around my cock it almost hurts, back arching, nails tearing my shoulders bloody—and I fuck her through it, through every convulsion. When the second wave hits, I follow her over the edge with a groan that feels torn from somewhere vital.
For thirty seconds, there’s nothing but pleasure and her body and my name on her lips.
Then reality returns.
I pull out carefully, ease the plug from her ass, and clean her with warm cloths while she lies there shaking.
“Hey.” I tilt her face up when I’m done. Her eyes are glazed, tear-streaked, beautiful. “Color?”
“So green.” Her laugh is wet. “Green like a forest. Green like—” She snorts suddenly, the sound undignified and startled, and claps a hand over her mouth. “Oh god. That was ugly.”
I smile. “It really was.”
“Shut up.” But she’s smiling now, tears and laughter mixing. “You fucked me stupid. What do you expect?”
“More of those sounds, probably.”
She shoves my shoulder weakly. “Asshole.”
“Accurate.”
* * *
Later—after she’s slept and woken and eaten black bread andtvorogand pickled cucumbers from the dacha kitchen—I find her in my hidden room.
She’s curled in the leather chair by the window with a book in her lap. One of mine—a battered copy ofThe Master and Margaritathat I’ve read so many times, the spine is held together with tape. Her hair is still damp from the shower. She’s wearing my shirt. Her feet are bare.
My mother would have scolded me, I fucking love it. I just watch her from the doorway and wonder how she managed to contaminate this space so quickly.
“I didn’t know you read Bulgakov,” she says without looking up.
“My mother’s favorite.” I cross to the violin case, run my fingers over the clasps. “She used to read it to me when I couldn’t sleep.”
Anya looks up then.
“Will you play?”
