Why I chose him.
Why, when the detective offered the allure of freedom, I retreated back into the cage. Not just for the sex, the violence, or the release coiling at the base of my spine.
But for him.
For the truth. For the brutal honesty of what we have.
Kirill doesn’t fake anything.
He doesn’t soften his words or sand down his edges for anyone else’s comfort. He’s brutal and real. Around him, everything else feels like a cheap imitation.
And now, he’s letting me see more. Not with words I doubt he understands, but with his body. With the way he shakes while holding himself over me. The pulse of him inside me, his breath hitching every time I move. The way his hands grip my hips, gifting me bruises I’ll wear for days.
I want him. I crave his touch, his voice.
All of him.
He slows to a deep, grinding rhythm that drags over every nerve ending. I wrap my legs around his waist, desperate to lock him in. He controls the pace, each thrust measured and devastating. He finds every spot inside that sends me gasping, like he’s mapping me and memorizing what breaks me apart.
I dig my nails into his skin. I’m sure I leave welts. “More.”
His eyes narrow as he focuses entirely on my pleasure, as if only that matters.
And that realization only raises the intensity to level ten.
After he shifts my leg higher, his next thrust hits that perfect angle and detonates stars behind my eyelids.
“There. You like it there.”
I whimper my agreement as my nails continue to scrape his back.
Again and again, he keeps hitting that spot, relentlessly pounding me into the mattress. I claw my nails in deeper, intent on marking him more.
To claim him, to remind him he’s not alone in this.
I’m his, and he’s mine.
I force my eyes open because I need to see him.
He’s watching me, the emptiness thawed away and replaced by a wild, molten heat.
He’s inviting me in. For the first time, I see the whole of Kirill, real and alive.
Why he’s dangerous, even broken, in a way nobody else understands.
Deep in my soul, I know nobody has ever seen this. He’s never shown anyone else the raw core of himself.
And I’ve never done this either. Never connected, never been seen or stripped bare orwanted. Not by a lover, a teacher, or anyone else.
This isn’t some cheap but pretty illusion about souls or about New Age enlightenment. This is flesh. Bone. Sweat and blood and truth.
This is everything.
Pressure gathers, drawn taut as a bowstring, each snap of his hips winding me tighter, tighter, until I’m strung out on the edge.
My release shudders through me, trembles in my spine, and steals my breath.
He’s chasing the pleasure too.
