I understand that need. I've felt it myself after particularly brutal jobs, that desperate hunger to feel something, anything, that confirms you're still human.
So I give her what she's asking for.
I kiss her back with everything I have, one arm wrapping around her waist to pull her flush against me. She gasps into my mouth, and I take advantage, deepening the kiss until she's making these small needy sounds that go straight to my cock.
"Yakov," she breathes against my lips. "Please."
"Please what?"
"I need…" She's shaking now, her whole body trembling. "I need to feel something other than scared or confused. I need you to make me feel alive."
Fuck.
Something in me snaps at those words. The carefully controlled restraint I've been maintaining since I first saw her photo shatters completely.
I lift her, my shoulder screaming in protest but I don't give a fuck, and she wraps her legs around my waist on instinct. I carry her through the apartment to my bedroom, kicking the door closed behind us.
The room is dark except for the city lights bleeding through the windows. I lay her down on my bed, and the sight of her there, blonde hair spread across my pillows, eyes wide and wanting, chest heaving, nearly undoes me.
"Tell me this is what you want," I say, my voice barely recognizable. "Because once I start, Laney, I'm not stopping. I'm not holding back. I'm going to give you exactly what you need, and it's going to be rough and feral and everything that I need too."
"Yes." She reaches for me, pulling me down to her. "Yes to all of that. I don't want gentle right now. I don't want careful. I just want to feel."
"You'll feel me." I capture her mouth in a bruising kiss. "I’ll make sure you feel me for days."
I strip her jacket off, then her shirt, my movements urgent but still controlled enough not to rip anything. When I see the faint bruises on her throat, marks from where that Albanian piece of shit grabbed her, rage pulses through me again.
"I should have made him suffer more," I growl.
"He's dead. You killed him." Her hands fist in my shirt. "Stop thinking about him and focus on me."
I do. I map every inch of her skin with my hands and mouth, learning what makes her gasp, what makes her arch into my touch. Her jeans come off, then her underwear, and when she's finally bare beneath me, I just stop and stare.
She's fucking perfect. Curvy and soft and ready.
"Yakov." Her voice is breathy, desperate. "Please don't make me wait any longer."
"I'm not making you wait." I lean down and kiss her, trailing my lips from hers to her jaw, her neck. "I'm memorizing you."
My hand slides between her legs, and fuck, she's already wet. Ready. Needing this as much as I do.
I work her with my fingers, watching her face as I learn exactly what she likes, what makes her want more. She's so responsive, her body arching into every touch, her breath coming in short gasps.
"That's it," I murmur against her ear. "Let go. Show me how you break apart."
"I can't—" She's close, I can feel it in the way she's clenching around my fingers. "It's too much—"
"You can. You will." I press my thumb against her clit, circling with varying amounts of pressure until I find exactly the pressure that makes her keen loudly. "Come for me, Laney."
Her entire body goes taut as the orgasm crashes through her. I work her through it, gentling my touch as she comes down.
When she can finally open her eyes again, she looks at me with something like wonder.
"That was..." She can't finish the sentence.
Her hands shake as she opens my borrowed shirt, being careful around my injured shoulder. When she finally gets it off and sees the full extent of the damage I've accumulated over the years, scars and marks that tell stories I never share, she touches them reverently.
"Do they hurt?" she asks.
