Bella
“Suck me hard,krasavitsa.”
That low, possessive growl? It vibrates straight through my bones.
My red dress is a wreck, and I’m bent over Konstantin like I’ve lost my damn mind. His cock’s in my mouth—hot, thick, way too big—and I’m licking him, sloppy, desperate, my tongue swirling like he’s the last popsicle on earth. Saliva and precum drip down my chin, making him slick, and I’m trying so hard, but God, I can’t take all of him, gagging a little, my throat tight.
I’ve never done this raw, but his growls, deep and wrecked like I’m nailing it, make my pussy throb.
“Deeper,krasavitsa,” he rasps, voice a dirty demand. “Make it wet.” His hand tightens in my hair, tugging hard enough to spark heat between my thighs andfuck, my pussy’s throbbing, soaking the seat under me. I whimper, lips stretching, pushingdown further, my tongue flicking wildly over his tip, savoring the salt, the pulse.
His growl shifts, sharper, and he yanks me up, my lips popping off him, spit trailing like a guilty secret.
“Enough,” he says, voice low, lethal, and God, his eyes are black, promising trouble. He hits a button, and the passenger seat reclines—way back, nearly flat, like a damn bed, the Cullinan’s stupid-huge interior swallowing us whole. I’m sprawled, dress tangled, legs spread, and he’s over me, one hand pinning my wrist.
“You don’t get it yet,” he says. “You beg, Bella, like I told you.” His free hand tugs my dress down, slow, exposing my tits, nipples hard in the cool air. He pinches one deliberately, so slow it’s torture, rolling it between his fingers, and I gasp, hips bucking, a sharp ache blooming deep. Then he flicks it, fast, sharp, a sting that makes me whimper, my chest heaving.
“Please…” I mumble, voice cracking, but he shakes his head, grinning darkly.
“Not enough,” he growls, shifting to grab his cock—fuck, it’s huge, glistening from my mouth—and he drags it over my clit, slow, slick, the head nudging, teasing, not pushing inside.
My hips jerk, chasing it, but he pulls back, smirking, controlling every inch.
“Tell me how bad you want it,” he says, rubbing again, a lazy stroke, and I’m soaked, seeping onto him, my folds burning for more.
“Konstantin…” I whine, voice small, but he’s relentless, teasing my other nipple now—a slow twist, then a quick tug, my back arching, desperate.
He slides his cock faster, a quick flick against my clit, and God, the wet sounds—sloppy, loud—fill the Cullinan, my slickness coating him, and I’m mortified, aching, craving every inch.
“Look at you, dripping for my cock.” He is panting, and his groan—low, strained—betrays how hard he’s holding back. “You want it inside, don’t you? Say it filthier.”
My breath catches, Shy Bella screaming “no way,” but my body betrays me, hips grinding air, chasing that slick heat. He slows again, a torturous drag, the head circling my clit, and I’m trembling, a needy mess, my folds swollen, begging without words.
“P— Please…” I stammer, voice cracking, but he grips my wrist harder, pinning it to the seat. Fuck, it hurts, a sharp bite that melts into want, his rules slamming back:“You beg, krasavitsa.”
His mouth drops to my nipple, sucking hard, teeth grazing, a slow pull that sparks fire down my spine, then a fast flick of his tongue, and I cry out, chest heaving, pain and pleasure twisting tight.
“Not good enough,” he growls against my skin before popping off, his cock nudging my clit again, relentless, wet smacks echoing, and shit, I’m unraveling. His groans—“Fuck, you’re killing me”—make me crave him more, knowing he’s fighting it too.
“Konstantin, please,” I gasp, voice hoarse, “I need your cock, please.”
He shifts, hooking my legs over his thighs, lifting my hips just enough—my ass hovers off the seat, bare, exposed—andfuck, he slaps it, light, stinging, and I yelp, heat blooming where his hand lands, my walls clenching, empty, desperate.
“Filthier,” he demands, sliding slowly now, teasing my entrance, just the tip brushing, still not pushing, and I’m shaking, tears pricking—God, I’m breaking.
“Please, fuck me,” I sob, raw, no shame, “hard, I want you to fuck me hard.” My voice cracks, real, pleading, and he groans, deep, feral, his cock twitching against me, but still he holds back,pinning my wrist so tight my fingers go numb. His eyes seem almost black, owning me.
“Better,” he mutters, but still no mercy, his mouth back on my nipple, sucking slower, a deliberate pull, teeth nipping sharp, and I’m moaning, hips bucking, the wet slide of his cock—fast, then slow—driving me insane, every nerve screaming.
I’m soaked, dripping down my thighs, the leather slick under me, and his control, his rules—“I decide when you break”—are killing me, pain and pleasure knotting so tight I can’t breathe.
“Please, Konstantin, I’m begging,” I whimper, voice wrecked, and he groans again, louder, fighting his own edge, but he’s stone, denying us both, making me his.
He leans back, seat still flat, and pulls me over him, straddling, my knees sinking into the leather.
“Grind,” he orders, voice cutting, and I do, sliding my wetness along his shaft; no penetration, just slick heat, his cock hard against me. My hips roll, frantic, and shit, it’s intense, his hands gripping my ass, not guiding, just holding, thumbs digging in, massaging slow circles. I’m panting, tits bouncing.
“Please, I need…” I start, stuttering, but he slaps my ass—light, sharp—and I yelp, heat spiking.
