The Cullinan’s engine hums low, a steady rumble under us, leather creaking as my knees dig deeper, straddling him, my wetness slick on his cock. His hands clamp my hips, fingers bruising, and fuck, I feel it—his shaft, hard, thick, sliding against me, the rough weave of his pants grazing my bare skin with every roll of my hips.
His chest heaves, a rock wall of muscle straining his shirt, breath jagged, hot against my neck, and his hair’s a mess—thick strands wild, sticking to his brow. Mine’s no better, tangled, falling over my face, my red dress a joke, hiked to my waist, tits spilling out, swaying as I grind, frantic, desperate.
“Keep moving,” he grunts, voice raw, and I do, hips circling, feeling every inch of him—not inside, not yet, just pressing, teasing, driving me wild. The friction’s insane, his cock’s heat burning me up, and I’m moaning, soft, then louder, my nails digging into his shoulders.
He’s fighting it—his grip tightens, a low groan escaping, and God, that sound makes me bolder, hungrier. I’m his, lost in this leather cage, and he’s breaking me open, but shit, I’m scared—scared I’m falling, for real, contract or not.
“Krasavitsa…”
Then—FUUUUCK—his cock slides in, sudden, deep, splitting me, and I scream, the stretch overwhelming, raw after all our holding back. The sensation’s electric, his zipper scraping my thighs, his shaft buried, filling me so full I can’t think.
“Konstantin,” I gasp, voice choked, and he grunts, rough, no words, just a primal sound, his hips jerking up once, hard.
My walls clench, greedy, and fuck, it’s too much, the intensity doubled by our wait, every nerve alive, screaming. My tits bounce, free, brushing his chest, and I’m a mess, but he’s all I see, his dark eyes owning me.
“Move,” he growls, hands gripping my hips, rocking me, slow at first, guiding my rhythm. I follow, hips rolling, moaning—loud—feeling him deep, so deep, the drag of his cock sparking fire in my core.
My head falls back, and I’m shuddering, every thrust a pulse, his chest heaving harder, sweat on his brow.
“Fuck, Bella,” he mutters, voice thick, and I’m keening, matching his pace, our bodies locked, slick, desperate. My moans turn frantic, climbing, and I’m close, too close, my walls tightening, ready to snap.
He stops—fuck—hips still, hands iron on my hips, and I whimper, frustrated, teetering.
“Not yet,” he snarls, eyes blazing, and God, his control’s killing me. “Ask me,” he demands, voice cutting, and I’m shaking, needy, no pride left.
“Please, Konstantin,” I sob, voice cracking, “let me come, I’m begging.” My hips twitch, useless, and he watches, granite, his cock still deep, pulsing, torturing me.
“Good girl,” he rasps, and fuck, that hits—hard—his hands loosen, rocking me again, faster, letting me chase it. I’m moaning, wild, and it builds—fast, unstoppable—my body seizing, shattering, a scream tearing out as I come, intense, waves crashing, clenching him so tight I’m dizzy. My legs shake, collapsing, but he holds me, strong, his grip bruising but steady, and I’m gasping, lost, his “good girl” echoing, making my heart twist—he’s mine, but am I his?
He’s still holding back—fuck, I feel it—his cock rigid, hips tense, breath a hiss through gritted teeth, fighting his own edge. I want him to break, too; I need it. I move, bold, shifting my legs up, squatting over him, one hand slamming the car’s ceiling for balance, the leather roof cool under my palm.
The position’s tight, my thighs burning, but God, it squeezes his cock hard. My walls are gripping, and my clit’s bare, exposed, rubbing his base every time I drop.
“Suka,” he curses, and his fingers find my clit—fast, relentless, circling so quick I’m gasping, nerves on fire.
“Konstantin!” I cry, moving faster, up and down, deep, so deep, the squeeze insane, his cock hitting spots that make me see stars. He’s groaning, loud, chest heaving, and he’s close—I feel it, his grip tightening, fingers bruising my hips again.
“Come with me,” I beg, and his fingers speed up, clit screaming, and it’s happening—another wave, harder, ripping through me, my scream choking as I come again, clenching him, soaking us both.
He snaps—“Fuck!”—thrusting up, once, twice, spilling inside, hot, raw, his groan guttural, shaking the air. I collapse, trembling, his arms catching me, gentle now, pulling me to his heaving chest, our breaths ragged. His lips find my temple, a soft brush that doesn’t match the way he just ruined me. Too tender. Too real.
God, I want to stay here, wrapped in him, even if it’s reckless.
But then—fuck—he stiffens, breath catching, like he’s caught himself.
I feel it. The shift. The moment softness becomes threat.
He freezes underneath me like he’s touched something sharp. One second ago, I was safe in his arms. Now he’s a rock.
“Get off,” he says.
It’s not loud. It’s not cruel.
But it’s ice.
Before I can even respond, he lifts me—not rough, but cold, like peeling away a mistake.
He reaches for the glove-box, grabs a box of tissues, and thrusts them at me without looking.
