Settling.
He spoke after a long pause.
“I stayed longer...” His voice was lower now. Almost vulnerable. “...hoping I could make you come.”
I froze mid-motion — fingers hovering over the button of my jeans.
I lifted my head slowly.
“Yeah,” I replied flatly. “If you’d fucked me a little longer, I would’ve.”
His eyes darkened at the blunt honesty.
“But I still enjoyed it anyway.” The admission came out raw.
Unfiltered.
And it hurt to admit. Because it was true. Every single touch. Every slow thrust. Every deep, deliberate movement that hit that perfect place inside me — it had been too good.
My body had betrayed me.
It responded to him like muscle memory.
Like five years of hatred hadn’t erased the chemistry.
Like trauma hadn’t rewritten desire.
He had filled me.
Controlled the pace.
Controlled the pressure.
And for a few seconds, my vision had gone white from pleasure — not pain.
But enjoyment didn’t erase history.
It didn’t erase prison.
It didn’t erase the blood soaking through hospital sheets.
It didn’t bring back the tiny life that had gone silent inside me.
It didn’t silence the nightmares.
Ruslan watched me carefully as I zipped my jeans with a sharp tug.
The movement was aggressive.
I stepped off the narrow cot.
My legs felt unsteady.
Muscles still trembling from release and anger mixing together in a confusing storm.
I locked my knees. Forced stability. Forced control.
Behind me, Ruslan dressed quickly.
