Not yet.
He regards me with dark intent. “What do you want now?”
I’m still reeling from my orgasm, my mind scattered into bright fragments of sensation. I wiggle my hips, beyond speech.
“Do you want my cock in your pussy?” Considering his usual economy of language, his crude words shock me.
Heat floods my face in a mix of embarrassment and arousal. His eyes narrow at my reaction, and I stare him down, refusing to blink first.
In one motion, I sink onto him, taking him in to the hilt. I gasp at the stretch and delicious fullness. His jaw tenses, the tendons standing out in sharp relief. He grabs my hips, but this time, he doesn’t set the pace.
He lets me. I grind against him, rolling my hips in slow, punishing circles, forcing him to feel every twitch of my muscles as I ride him.
Kirill’s finally the one at my mercy, and I revel in the intoxicating power. The satisfaction is better than my best meditation session, headier than watching my follower count hit over five hundred last year.
Hovering over him, forcing him to submit to my will, my energy, is…exhilarating. Dizzying.
I know he could flip us over, pin me to the bed, and seize what he wanted in an instant.
I only have control because he lets me—because hetrustsme—and that knowledge makes me reckless. I want to push him to the absolute brink.
I speed up, slamming down onto him with increasing fervor, every thrust shooting shockwaves of bliss through my body.
His hands clench my hips hard enough to bruise as he stares up at me with those wild predator eyes, daring me to break him first.
I ride him ruthlessly, the bed creaking under us, sweat slicking my hair to my forehead. With every bounce, I feel myself getting closer to yet another climax, an almost unbearable tension winding tighter and tighter inside me.
His growl cuts through the haze. “What else do you want? How can I make it better?”
The words tumble out before I can reconsider. “I want you hard and fast.”
The request is barely out of my mouth before Kirill responds with surprising speed.
All softness disappears, the play-acting of surrender stripped away.
In one brutal, fluid motion, he flips me onto my side, his body curling around mine like a living snare.
One second I’m gasping in surprise, the next he thrusts inside me again, driving deep.
His hand clamps down on my hip while the other one slips beneath me, cupping my breast.
He’s not careful now. No slow tease or measured build. Just the punishing rhythm of his body pounding into mine, hard and fast, each mighty surge puffing free what little air my lungs still possess.
This is what I asked for. What I wanted. What I summoned with my own words.
I’m helpless against him, and that knowledge renders everything sharper and brighter.
His breath scorches my neck, his teeth grazing then scraping over sensitive skin until he’s lit every inch of me on fire. Where he touches me, I burn. Where he doesn’t touch, I crave him.
The orgasm barrels through me, the strength of the detonation splitting me right down the center.
I scream into the pillow as my body locks up, my muscles clamping down around him.
Kirill’s rhythm grows even more relentless. He rips out of me, pushes me roughly onto my stomach, and drags my hips up until I’m on my knees with my face pressed into the mattress.
Completely at his mercy.
And I love knowing that.
