“Why are you doing this to me?” he muttered against my lips.
“Doing what?” I asked, voice steady despite the heat pooling low in my belly.
“Turning me on. Your defiance. Your beauty. Your fire. It’s doing things to me I can’t explain.”
“I was under your roof for the first three weeks of our marriage,” I said quietly. “I didn’t seem to turn you on then. You ignored me like I was furniture. Like I didn’t exist. And suddenly now—I’m the one turning you on every time I breathe.”
“Elena...”
I grabbed his shirt collar, pulled him down, and kissed him—hard.
He froze for half a second—shock flashing across his face—then his hands clamped around my waist like he was afraid I’d vanish.
He devoured my mouth—hungry, desperate, like a man who’d been starving for years.
The kiss stretched—seconds bleeding into minutes—until I mumbled against his lips:
“Fuck me.”
He lifted me in one swift motion—hands under my thighs, my legs wrapping instinctively around his waist.
He carried me to the narrow cot shoved against the far wall—standard-issue military issue, thin mattress, gray wool blanket.
He laid me down with surprising gentleness, then stripped—shirt yanked over his head, trousers shoved down, kicked aside.
He stood naked—hard, thick, veins standing out along his length, tip already glistening.
I peeled off my own clothes—jacket, shirt, bra—until I was bare from the waist up. He helped with my jeans and panties—fingers brushing my skin, sending sparks up my spine.
When he moved to cover me, I turned—rolling onto my stomach, knees braced, ass up.
I couldn’t look at his face.
Not while he was inside me.
Not while the man who’d ruined me filled me again.
He didn’t question it. Just gripped my hips—hard enough to bruise—then slid two fingers into me first.
Slow, deliberate.
He curled them, stroking that spot inside that made my back arch, my breath hitch.
Wet sounds filled the silence as he worked me open—two fingers scissoring gently, then three, stretching me with careful patience.
I moaned—low, involuntary—the sound raw and honest.
He kept going until I was slick and aching, dripping down my thighs.
Then he removed his fingers.
And slammed inside in one brutal thrust.
I gasped—sharp, startled.
The stretch burned, then bloomed into something darker, sweeter.
He filled me completely—thick, hot, relentless.
