He guided my hands to the backrest, pinned my body against it. “Hold on, Shorty, and don’t let go.”
I felt a thrill rush through me at both his dominance and the trust it implied. We were playing a new game now—one where the old rules didn’t apply.
Unlike our first night together, there was no hesitation in me, no hiding, no uncertainty. I’d already shown him everything—my darkest memories, my deepest scars—and still, he wanted me. Not despite my broken pieces but because of them.
In the midst of it all, a moment of clarity struck me with such force that I gasped. This man knew me—truly knew me—in ways no one else ever had or would. He’d glimpsed every version of Isabella Salvini, and instead of running, he was claiming me completely.
In his arms, I would always be completely safe.
Thrilled but safe.
I expected him to just fuck me from behind, but I was wrong. Instead, he moved off the couch, pulled my hips back, crouched down, cupped my ass cheeks, and lowered his head.
“Oh,” I gasped as he took my entrance in his mouth, lapping up my juices like they were a fine wine. It was the most intimate thing I’d experienced so far, his stubble tickling my folds as he devoured me with such intensity that it made me shiver.
I was panting, trying to gather my thoughts, when I felt something hard and blunt press against my back door. “What?—?”
“Trust me,” he growled before he slipped his wet thumb inside me.
I let out a moan that turned into a sob as he pushed past any discomfort, then lapped at my pussy again.
The dual assault was almost too much to handle.
And he didn’t stop until my first orgasm took me by surprise, and I unraveled beneath his mouth and hands in a way that stripped me of every last defense. I was whimpering, gasping for air, grasping at the leather, and only his strong, unyielding grip kept me from dissolving.
He came up behind me, and his lips touched my ear. “Such a good girl,” he whispered, “you take it in both holes like a pro, don’t you?”
I inhaled sharply and could feel myself gush.
He lined up his cock and filled me with one long thrust completely while pushing his thumb deeper at the same time.
It was different this time—painful but in a good way, like our bodies were totally aligning. I threw my head back against his shoulder, feeling him bite my neck as he began to move inside of me. Each thrust sent pleasure rushing through me from head to toe, leaving no space untouched by its heat.
“More,” I begged, arching into him as he hit that spot inside of me that made everything go hazy around the edges.
His hand found mine on the couch and laced our fingers together. “Look at us,” he rasped. “Do you see how perfectly we fit together?”
Through blurry eyes, I glanced down and realized he’d pulled the blindfold off me. Then I looked up and realizedthat our bodies were mirrored in the window behind the couch. I watched his hand move up my arm until he cupped and squeezed my breast, his powerful torso behind mine, so much bigger than mine, with one hand squeezing my nipple while the thumb of the other one was still inside of me.
He bit my neck again, claiming rather than hurting me. He would probably leave marks on my skin. Then he moved his mouth across my shoulder blades with a reverence that contrasted the intensity of his eyes on me.
I met his gaze in the window and surrendered completely, not out of weakness but out of choice. For a woman who had spent her life in control of her emotions, of her image, of her secrets—the ability to let go entirely was its own kind of power.
And he knew it. He took everything I offered but always with those eyes watching my face, reading my reactions, ensuring my pleasure even as he claimed me.
“Let go,” he whispered against my shoulder, his voice rough with desire. “I’ve got you.” He thrust deep, his cock, his thumb, squeezing my nipple hard, and he bit my shoulder.
And I did. The tightly wound control I’d maintained my entire life unraveled while his mouth, his hands, and his body moved with mine. I came apart completely, my body shaking with the force of it, his name torn from my lips in a half cry, half groan that surprised me.
He followed moments later, his body tensed against me. “God, Isabella.”
My name sounded like a rough prayer on his lips. I stared at him through the window, and he held my gaze—let me see that moment of absolute vulnerability.
It struck something deep within me.
This was just Ivan, as raw and real as I’d ever seen him. No filter. No mask. No pretense.
36
