"I don't want slow. I want to feel something."
I lift her. She wraps her legs around my waist automatically—ballet flexibility making it easy, natural. I position her against the mirror, the glass cool against her back.
"Watch," I tell her, angling us so she can see our reflection. "Watch what I do to you."
I enter her slowly. Feel her barrier. Meet her eyes in the mirror.
"Last chance to stop," I say.
"Don't you dare stop."
I push through. She cries out—pain and surprise and something else. I still, letting her adjust, watching her face in the reflection.
"Breathe," I tell her. "Just breathe."
She does. Slowly, her body relaxes around me. Accepts me.
"Move," she says. "Please. I need—"
I move. Slowly at first, watching her face in the mirror. Watching the pain fade, replaced by something else. Confusion. Then pleasure.
Her flexibility is extraordinary. I adjust her position—one leg over my shoulder, the other wrapped around my waist. The angle lets me go deeper. She gasps, arching against the mirror.
"Look," I tell her. "Look at yourself."
She does. Watches herself in the reflection—body bent in ways most women couldn't manage, taking me deep, transforming from broken dancer to claimed woman.
I feel her blood on me. The evidence of her innocence. It should make me gentle.
Instead, it makes me feral.
"Mine," I growl against her throat. "Say it."
"Yours." She's panting now, her body moving with mine. "Always yours."
I work her through the discomfort to pleasure. Teaching her body to respond, to recognize what feels good. My hand finds her breast, thumb circling her nipple. She moans.
"That's it," I encourage. "Tell me what you feel."
"Full. Stretched. Like you're—oh god—like you're everywhere."
I change angles again. Hit something inside her that makes her cry out.
"There?" I ask.
"There. Please. More."
I give her more. Drive into her harder, faster, watching our reflection. Her leg is nearly behind her head now—ballet training making her impossibly flexible. I take advantage of it, bending her in ways that let me claim every inch.
Her first orgasm catches us both by surprise. She clenches around me, crying out in Russian—words I don't catch but understand anyway.
"Again," I demand.
"I can't—"
"You can. You will."
I prove it. Work her body like an instrument I'm learning to play. Find what makes her gasp, what makes her moan, what makes her beg.
