"More," he demands.
I give him more—two fingers, working him open, stretching him slowly. I curl my fingers, hunting for his prostate. When I find it—a small, firm ridge—I press into it.
He cries out, his back arching off the bed, his cock jerking against his stomach.
"There," he gasps. "God, right there."
I keep working that spot, stretching him, preparing him. He is wet and hot around my fingers, clamping down and releasing in spasms. I know I could make him come just from this—just from my fingers inside him and the pressure on that spot.
But that is not what I want. I want to be inside him. I want to feel him come apart around my cock, to know that I am the one who destroyed his control.
Three fingers now. He rocks back against my hand, fucking himself on my fingers, all pretense of composure abandoned.
"Ready," he gasps. "I am ready, Maksim, please—put it in."
I withdraw my fingers, take my cock in my hand, slicking it with the fluid from inside him and more lube. I line up at his entrance.
For a moment, I pause, looking down at him.
Ivan Baranov. The man who holds the city in his fist. Spread beneath me with his legs wrapped around my waist and his eyes begging me to take him.
The man who made me. The man who owns me.
Except he does not own me. Not anymore. Not after tonight.
I push inside.
The heat of him is overwhelming. He is so tight, clenching around me as I sink deeper. I have to grit my teeth to keep from thrusting too hard, too soon. I go inch by inch, stretching him,filling him, until I am fully seated inside him, my hips pressed against his.
We both freeze, breathing hard, adjusting to the sensation. It feels impossibly intimate. Impossibly right.
"Move," he whispers. "Maksim, move."
I move.
I pull back almost all the way, then drive forward.
The thrust drags a moan from both of us. The second makes him dig his nails into my shoulders, leaving marks that will last for days. By the third, we have found a rhythm—hard and deep, nothing gentle about it. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, wet and heavy.
His body is a furnace around me. Every thrust sends pleasure cascading through my spine, building and building toward something I cannot control. The friction is perfect. The tightness is perfect.
I shift my angle, aiming for that spot I found earlier.
He screams.
It's a raw, broken sound. His head throws back into the pillow.
"There," he gasps. "Right there, do not stop?—"
I do not stop. I pound into that spot relentlessly, watching him come undone beneath me. His face is flushed, sweat slicking his skin. His eyes roll back. His hand wraps around his own cock, stroking himself in time with my thrusts, desperate for release.
I grab his wrist and pin it to the mattress above his head.
"Not yet," I growl. "Look at me."
He forces his eyes open. They are glazed, wild.
"You are mine," I say against his throat. "Say it."
