"Please fuck me." I dig my nails into his shoulders. "Stop teasing and fuck me."
He enters me in one deep thrust.
The stretch is perfect—full, almost too much, exactly what I need. I cry out, back arching off the bed, and he stills to let me adjust. His jaw is tight with the effort of not moving, every muscle trembling.
"Okay?" His voice is strained.
"Move. For the love of God, move."
He pulls back slow, then drives forward hard. Sets a rhythm that's relentless, punishing, each stroke hitting deep enough to make stars burst behind my eyes. The headboard slams against the wall. The bed creaks in protest. Neither of us cares.
"You feel incredible." He's panting against my neck, words rough and ragged. "So tight. So wet. Like you were made for this. Made for me."
"Harder."
He obeys. Hooks one of my legs over his shoulder, changing the angle so he hits even deeper. I'm moaning constantly now; nonsense sounds that might be his name or might be prayers or might be nothing at all.
"Touch yourself," he commands. "Want to feel you come around my cock."
My hand slides between us. I find my clit, rubbing in tight circles while he fucks me, and the dual sensation builds the pressure impossibly fast.
"Close," I gasp. "So close?—"
"Come for me, Isabelle." His eyes lock on mine. "Let me see you fall apart."
I obey.
The second orgasm hits harder than the first, my entire body seizing around him. I scream his name, nails raking down his back hard enough to draw blood, and he follows seconds later—burying himself to the hilt and groaning my name like it's the only word he knows.
We collapse together, a tangle of sweaty limbs and racing hearts. He's still inside me, softening slowly, and I can't bring myself to let him go. My legs stay locked around his waist. My hands stay pressed to his back, feeling the scratches I left.
"I'm sorry about your back," I murmur against his shoulder.
"Don't be." He presses a kiss to my temple. "I'll wear them like badges."
"Possessive."
"You have no idea."
We lie there for minutes or hours, time losing meaning in the darkness. Eventually, he rolls to the side, pulling me with him, arranging us so I'm tucked against his chest. His arm wraps around my waist like he's afraid I'll disappear.
I trace the tattoos on his forearm. Wolves and thorns and something in Cyrillic I still can't read.
"What does this say?"
"It's complicated."
"Try me."
He's quiet for a beat. "It says 'The wolf does not lose sleep over the opinions of sheep.' Old Bratva saying. Got it after my first year with the organization. Thought it made me untouchable."
"Did it?"
"For a while." His hand slides into my hair, stroking gently. "Then I had Mila. And suddenly the opinions of one very small sheep mattered more than anything else in the world."
My heart cracks open a little further.
"You're a good father."
