His hand slides up my body—ribs, breast, collarbone—and wraps around my throat. Not gentle. Not careful. Just his palm against my pulse, his fingers pressing into the sides of my neck, controlling my air supply with the same ease he controls everything else.
The pressure makes my vision swim. Makes every nerve ending in my body ignite. I'm pinned between cold glass and hot skin, his cock splitting me open, his hand around my throat, and I've never felt more present. More real.
More like myself.
"Eyes on me." His grip on my throat tilts my head forward. "I want to watch you fall apart."
I force my eyes open. His face is inches from mine, jaw tight, grey eyes black with something that looks like hunger and obsession mixed into a cocktail that should terrify me.
It doesn't.
He rolls his hips, hitting that spot inside me that makes my entire body seize, and I clench around him so hard his rhythm stutters.
"Fuck." The word punches out of him. "You're so goddamn tight."
"Less talking."
"You like it when I talk." He punctuates each word with a thrust that has my spine scraping against glass. "You like hearing how good you feel wrapped around my cock. How I've thought about this every night on your couch. How I've jerked off in your guest bathroom imagining exactly this."
The image hits me like a shot of whiskey—Sergei, hand wrapped around himself, biting back my name while I slept oblivious in the next room.
"You're filthy," I manage.
"And you're dripping down my thighs. Guess we're even."
His thumb presses harder against my pulse. The world narrows to this—his cock driving into me, his hand on my throat, the sound of skin against skin echoing off glass that's completelyfogged now. Someone in the building across the street is definitely getting a show.
Let them watch.
The orgasm builds at the base of my spine like pressure behind a dam. I can feel it coming, inevitable and devastating, and part of me wants to fight it. Wants to stay in this moment where nothing exists except his body and mine.
But he's not letting me postpone anything.
"Come for me." Not a request. Not a question. A command that resonates somewhere deep in my chest. "Right now, Isabelle. I want to feel it."
"Make me."
His eyes flash. He shifts his grip on my thigh, changes the angle, and drives up into me so deep I swear I can feel him in my throat.
I shatter.
The orgasm doesn't build—it detonates. My back bows off the glass, his name tearing from my throat in a scream that probably wakes my neighbors. My entire body clamps down on him, shaking, convulsing, pleasure so sharp it edges into pain.
He fucks me through it. Hard. Relentless. His hand tight on my throat, his cock hitting that spot over and over until I'm sobbing, until the first orgasm bleeds into a second, until I'm nothing but nerve endings and need.
Then his rhythm stutters. His jaw goes tight. He buries himself to the hilt with a groan that sounds like my name and somethingelse—something that sounds like surrender—and I feel him pulse inside me, hot and thick.
For a long moment, neither of us moves.
We just stay there. Bodies joined. Hearts pounding. The city glittering around us like we're suspended in a snowglobe full of stars.
Then Sergei sets me down, his hands lingering on my waist while I find my footing. His thumbprint bruises are already forming on my thighs. I press my fingers against one and watch his eyes darken.
I'll keep them. Wear them like jewelry. Something real to hold onto when everything else feels like smoke.
My legs are shaking.
Everything is shaking.
