He lets me. "You next," he says.
I strip off my shirt and the sports bra underneath. Left shoulder’s still healing, an ugly web of stitches bracketed by black-and-blue, but his eyes go lower: the one by my flank. For a second, he doesn’t breathe. I see the flicker: the damage catalogued and run through some database. He looks at me like I’m a gun he’s dying to test-fire, already half in love with the recoil.
My hands shift to his belt. "Yes or no?"
He cups my face; the swelling is down, thankfully, but I'm still sporting some slowly fading blue bruises. His thumb gently traces over one of them, then he bends his head lower and kisses me by the hollow of my throat. A single word against my skin, "Yes."
I work the belt, then the pants, and he helps with the zero finesse of a man minutes from losing control. By the time we’re both nearly bare, I gasp when fabric scrapes my fresh stitches. Not pain, just the shock of being so alive. He notices. His hands hover, then land feather-light along my side, above and below the wound. "If you need to?—"
I laugh into his mouth, open and rude. "A little pain has never killed anybody, " I wink, "and if I need to, I’ll tell you. Otherwise, keep going."
"Bossy," he mutters, amused.
"You love it."
He pushes me down onto the mattress. For a moment, he just kneels over me, a hand on either side of my head, and the part of me that grew up feral and caged relishes the way he takes up space without crowding me out. There’s no hurry, just this hot, patient gravity between us.
He grips my hips, then moves slowly, turning us so I'm now straddling him once again, aligning himself so he won’t hurt me, and I realize: he’s mapped this out in his mind step by step, as if every part of me is a tripwire he’s got to cross without setting off a bomb.
"You're so fucking wet already."
"Just for you, Marito."
I feel him entering me; he's long, thick, and hard. My inner walls spread deliciously, and I hiss in pleasure as he lowers me onto him. I cup the back of his head, pull him so our mouths align, and then I ride the drag of himagainst me, shifting until it hurts so good I want to bite my own fist. Thinking better of it, I latch on to the top of his shoulder. He chuckles. My inner voice is a thousand miles away, and nothing exists except the hum of his skin on mine, the rhythm he sets, the way every inch of pressure is measured and ferociously controlled.
"Fuck," he groans, low and beautifully honest. "You feel like trouble."
"Built for it," I answer, and rake my nails down his spine. He shivers.
He focuses on my face while pushing inside, watchful and nearly reverent. It takes everything in me not to smirk. Instead, I clutch his hair, make him look at me, and say, "Harder."
He glances at the stitches, then at me, and in three seconds flat, I see him decide that if my brother kills him, it'll be worth it.
"Okay. But when you cry, I’m telling everyone."
I lock my wrists around his neck and brace for impact.
He slams into me, and the jolt short-circuits all higher brain functions. It’s raw and perfect, a fucking chemical reaction. The pain is there, but it’s the kind that makes me alive instead of reminding me how close I got to death.
The first thrust is like a dare, the second like a debt, and every one after is a negotiation neither of us wants to win. We move together like we’re both breakingcurfew. No words, just noise and breath— discovering new language in every eye-contact, every pressure point. He palms my tits with rough hands, thumbs skimming the bruised sides, not flinching from the damage. He holds them like they're something holy. "So fucking beautiful."
He squeezes harder, and I arch up, pressing my breasts right into him, the ache a live wire from nipple straight to spine. He rolls one between finger and thumb, twists it, gentle at first, probing, trying, and when I hiss in pleasure, he leans in and bites the hurt out and replaces it with something like worship.
"You like pain," he says, smug as a cat.
I want to tell him to fuck off, but I want his mouth more. "You’re welcome to test that hypothesis," I pant, grinding down.
"Oh, I'm testing," he rasps, tilting his hips up until his cock hits the sweet spot high up inside me. He grins into my skin, dark and wild, then takes the whole nipple into his mouth, pulls hard enough for me to see stars. The sound I make isn’t English or Russian, just raw. The world blurs wet and hot; I rut against him, frantic, every nerve ending rioting.
"Fuck, Oksana. Look at you. You love it." He circles his tongue, then bites again, pushing the limits of what I can take. Everything inside me turns molten, burning through the stitched-up hurt, through everything. The wet heat of his mouth against me is a twin to the buildingpressure below, a dizzy overlap that threatens to break me in half.
My hips stutter, desperate for friction. He lets go, moves his hand around my throat, a grounding force that nearly leaves me comatose with pleasure. How does he know so well what I need?
"Come on," he murmurs, and thrusts up. I ride him, the drag perfect, the angle even better. He plants his feet, setting a rhythm that turns my bones to powder.
"You’re so fucking wet," he growls, biting my earlobe. "You want to come undone on me? Show me, Tempesta di Sangue. I want to see you lose it."
Every word floats over my skin like a knife. I obey, because I can’t not. I rock faster, clenching him tight, and his hand squeezes my throat until the world shrinks to just the two of us, just this?—
