"Patience."
He spreads my legs wider, settling between them, his breath hot against my core. I can feel how wet I am, can feel myself clenching around nothing, desperate for friction.
The first stroke of his tongue makes me cry out.
He licks me like I'm a delicacy, like he's savoring every taste. Long, slow strokes from my entrance to my clit, circling the sensitive bundle of nerves before diving back down. Hishands grip my thighs, holding me open, keeping me from squirming away from the intense pleasure.
"Oh God," I moan. "Oh God, Misha—"
He doesn't respond, just increases his pace, his tongue working me with relentless precision. One finger slides inside me, then two, curling against that spot that makes stars explode behind my eyes.
The orgasm builds like a wave, cresting higher and higher until I'm teetering on the edge of something vast and terrifying. His mouth seals over my clit, sucking hard, and I shatter.
The pleasure crashes through me in endless waves, my body convulsing, my voice breaking on his name. He works me through it, gentling his touch as the aftershocks fade, pressing soft kisses to my inner thighs.
When I finally open my eyes, he's looking up at me with an expression of pure male satisfaction.
"That's one," he says.
He doesn't give me time to recover.
Before the trembling has fully stopped, he's crawling back up my body, positioning himself at my entrance. I can feel the blunt head of his cock pressing against me, slick with my arousal, and my hips tilt up instinctively.
"Wait," he says. "I need to—the baby—"
"The doctor said it's safe," I remind him. "We won't hurt anything."
Still, he's careful as he pushes inside me. Slow. Controlled. Letting my body adjust to the stretch.
It's different than our first time. That night was desperate, frantic, two people crashing together in the middle ofa storm. This is something else. This is deliberate. Intimate. A claiming and a surrender all at once.
When he's fully seated inside me, we both go still.
"Okay?" he asks, his voice strained.
"More than okay." I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper. "Move. Please, Misha. I need you to move."
He does.
The first thrust is slow, experimental—a long withdrawal followed by a deep, grinding return that hits every nerve ending inside me. I gasp, and he does it again, setting a rhythm that's torturously unhurried.
"You feel incredible," he groans. "So tight. So wet. Made for me."
"Yours," I agree, the word escaping before I can stop it. "I'm yours."
Something snaps in him at that.
The controlled rhythm shatters, replaced by something harder, faster, more primal. He drives into me with an intensity that steals my breath, his hips pistoning, his hands gripping my thighs hard enough to bruise.
I love it. Love the weight of him, the power, the way he's losing himself in my body. I match his rhythm as best I can, lifting my hips to meet each thrust, my nails raking down his back.
"Harder," I demand. "Don't hold back."
"I don't want to hurt you—"
"You won't. I need this. I need you."
He groans, his head dropping to my shoulder, and then he's giving me everything. Every stroke is deep and devastating, hitting that spot inside me that makes me see stars. The pleasure builds again, tighter and brighter than before, coiling at the base of my spine.
