I rock against him, feeling him hard beneath me. "I'm real. Very real."
He takes my nipple in his mouth—sucking, teeth grazing, tongue soothing—while his hand works the other breast. I gasp, threading my fingers through his hair, holding him to me.
"Need you," I breathe. "Now."
"Patience, little ballerina." The endearment comes naturally now, transformed from Anton's possession into Maksim's claiming. "I want to take my time with you."
But I'm already tugging at his shirt, needing to feel him. He helps me pull it off, revealing the scars I've memorized—bullet wounds, knife marks, the physical evidence of violence survived.
I trace them with my fingers, then my lips. Kiss each one. Claim them as mine.
His hands go to my leggings, sliding them down my hips. I lift enough for him to strip them off completely, leaving me naked on his lap while he's still wearing jeans.
"Not fair," I protest.
But he's already unbuckling his belt, unzipping. I help him push the denim down, freeing him. He's thick and hard, and I'm suddenly very aware that a week ago I was a virgin.
Now I'm more confident. Certain. Mine.
I rise up on my knees, positioning myself over him. His hands grip my hips, guiding but not controlling.
"Slow," he says. "We have time."
I sink down inch by inch, taking him deep. The stretch is perfect—that edge between too much and exactly right. When I'm fully seated, we both groan.
"Feel that?" he asks, his hands sliding to my ass, holding me against him. "Feel how perfectly you take me? Like you were made for this. For me."
I start to move—slow, rolling my hips, finding the angle that makes us both gasp. His hands guide my rhythm, help me rise and fall, but he lets me control the pace.
"That's it," he encourages, his mouth finding my breast again. "Ride me, Sonya. Take what you need."
I do. I use his body for my pleasure, chasing the building tension, the coiling heat low in my belly. One of his hands slides between us, thumb finding my clit, circling with perfect pressure.
"Oh god—" I'm close, so close.
"Come for me," he demands. "Let me feel you."
I shatter. Clench around him, crying out his name, my body arching as pleasure crashes through me in waves. He holds me through it, his thumb still working my clit, drawing out every aftershock.
When I slump against his chest, breathless, he's still hard inside me.
"Your turn," I murmur against his throat.
He shifts us without pulling out—lays me back on the couch, my legs wrapping around his waist as he settles between my thighs. Now he controls the pace, driving deep, hitting spots inside me that make me gasp.
"Again," he says, watching my face. "I want to feel you come around me again."
"I can't—it's too soon—"
"You can." His hand slides between us again, finding that sensitive bundle of nerves. "You will."
He's right. The second orgasm builds faster, sharper, almost painful in its intensity. I claw at his back, his shoulders, needing to anchor myself as he drives into me harder, faster, his control finally slipping.
"Maksim—please—I can't—"
"You can." His voice is rough, strained. "Come with me, Sonya. Now."
I do. We do. Together. My body clenching around him as he spills inside me, both of us gasping, clinging to each other as pleasure overwhelms everything else.
