I detonate. It’s messy and mean, a thing that nearly blanks me out. He holds me through it, one palm pressed over my heart to keep it from escaping my chest. I shudder and go limp, sated and stunned.
He slows, but not to stop, just to keep from falling apart. I feel the tremor in his arms. He pulls up, yanks my face to his so we’re forehead to forehead, breath and sweat, together on this beautiful edge.
"Oksana," he rasps, "tell me where."
For a half-second, his eyes flick down, and I know instantly: he meansit;he’s asking where I want his cum.The warning is a kindness, a negotiation, and not an order. I wrap my hand tight around the back of his neck. "I’m good," I grit, voice dirty and raw. "Don’t fucking stop. Let me feel it." And yeah, my cunt throbs at the thought, the risk, the rush, the possibility. I’m reckless, or I’m just very, very alive.
He shudders. "Jesus Christ?—"
I snap my hips down, hard, my hand moves and finds his balls, I squeeze, and he loses the war. He drives up into me, a vicious, beautiful rhythm, and the tension in him breaks with mine. He comes with a low, ragged groan, forehead pressed to mine, the sound shaking down my spine. It’s not like getting ruined, it’s more like being rebuilt, the way all the pieces slam back together—new, bright, humming.
For a minute, we just breathe, sweat cooling, skin fused at a million points of contact. I realize—absurdly, horrifyingly—that I want him to stay like this, inside me, for a full calendar year. My bones go jelly; my skin sings.
He plants a shaky kiss on my collarbone. "You’re out of your fucking mind, Tempesta di Sangue," he murmurs, chest heaving.
"Not news," I reply, and try to slow my pulse to human speed.
We slide apart and collapse side by side, both ruined. I let my thigh slide over his, let him keep one lazy hand on me like he’s worried I’ll evaporate.
"Did you mean it?" he asks softly. "About being good?"
I point at my arm, not the one where I was shot, "Works like a charm."
From the look on his face, I can tell he has no idea what I'm talking about, and I'm not in the mood to explain the little bar in my arm that will stop his little soldiers from producing a jackpot.
He grins, surprisingly boyish for a man built mostly of murder and cheekbones. "Woulda pulled out," he says, contrite and not.
"Next time," I answer, and roll onto him, just so he knows there will be one.
He runs his hand down my back, long and slow. "It’ll hurt more tomorrow," he warns, eyes flicking to the stitched gash at my side.
"Worth it." I suck at his jaw, just to see if I can mark him. "Also, stitches are temporary."
He laughs, full and unguarded, the first real one I’ve heard from him. It cracks something in me, and I want to hear it again.
"I need a shower," I announce, but I don’t move.
"You need way more than that." There’s affection in the insult, which makes it worse.
He gets up and pulls me easily to my feet. We stand naked in the stale light, mapping each other in the aftermath.
A few hours later,the sheets are still twisted at our ankles, the taste of her still lingers on my tongue, and we’re bickering like we’ve been married since the Cold War.
Ettoro’s feed from his helmet camera moves across the old TV with the green smear of night optics, his two men ghosting on either side. They’re belly-low in scrub across from the old base. Chain link ahead. Blocky shadows for buildings. Oksana leans over my shoulder. Her hair is still damp from her earlier shower, and I like how it feels against my neck. Her voice is as sharp as a scalpel. "Ettoro, move your head to the right."
He obliges.
"More."
Ettoro mutters, "I’m not an owl."
I grin despite myself. "Humor her."
"Move," she says, impatiently, and he does, tilting until the camera finds the motor pool. Two guards stand at the corner, sharing a smoke and ruining their night vision.
"Zoom."
He pinches in. The pixelation breaks, then settles. "Happy now?" Ettoro asks.
