Not with him.
“Ummm…” I moan; another hot surge hits, my pussy clenching hard, because Anton keeps going, his fingers thrusting deep, relentless, like he’s hell-bent on wrecking me again. My tits heave in my bra, spilling over, bouncing with every shudder as I grip the counter.
I’m trembling, my eyes begging him.
Fuck, it’s intense; this greedy heat flooding my pussy, throbbing like it’s begging for more. My brain’s screaming,“MORE. I WANT MORE.”
His breath hitches, and then with his free hand, he pushes my blouse up, tugging my bra down, exposing my full tits to the cool air.
He leans in and his mouth finds my nipple, tongue flicking hot and wet, before he sucks—hard enough to sting, soft enough to make me cry out. The dual sensation—his fingers inside me, his mouth on my breast—has me writhing, hips bucking against his hand. I tangle my hands in his hair, pulling him closer, needing more. His mouth moves to my neck, teeth grazing my sensitive skin, and I shudder, my body arching into him, every nerve alive.
Panting, he pulls back just enough, eyes meeting mine, his fingers still inside me, thrusting deep.
“I could be gentle,” he murmurs, voice dark, laced with that edge that makes my core clench tighter around him. “But you like the monster, don’t you?”
The words send a thrill through me, dark and delicious, because fuckyes, I do. I like the edge, the danger, the way he makes me feel alive and wanted, not like a chore, but like something he craves.Yes.I’m willing, pressing into him, my body saying yes even as tears burn my eyes from how intense it is.
“Answer me, Mary,” he growls, slowing his fingers.
I nod, breathless, my hips grinding against his hand, chasing that high again.
“Yes,” I whisper, and it’s the truth, my thighs quivering as he curls his fingers harder, hitting that spot over and over. “Anton… please…” I press my lips together. “I’m gonna come again.”
The build is faster now, a fire raging, and I come again, my body spasming tight around him, waves rolling through me until I’m shaking, breathless, my vision spotting.
He pulls his fingers out slowly, and I whimper at the loss, but he’s already dropping to his knees, hands spreading my thighs wider.
His breath is hot against me, and then his mouth is there, lips closing over my clit, tongue flicking in a rhythm that makes my hips buck.
“Fuck, fuck… fuck!” I cry.
He’s relentless, licking deep, tasting every inch, his fingers sliding back in to join his tongue, thrusting while he sucks. I pull him closer, and the vibration of his groan against me sends me spiraling.
“Keep begging,printsessa,” he murmurs against my skin, his voice low and dirty, the words vibrating through me.
“Please,” I beg.
“The more you break, the harder I get.” It’s not cruel—it’s hot, encouraging, like he wants me to fall apart for him, and I do, my body responding with a fresh gush of heat as his tongue circles my clit faster, his fingers pumping deep.
I’m gasping, “Ahhhh,” the sound drawing out long and high, my hips grinding against his face.
He shifts, his free hand finding my nipple again, pinching and rolling it while his mouth works me, tongue lapping flat and wide, then pointing to flick my clit. The combination is too much—his fingers finding that spot, his mouth sucking hard—and something builds differently this time, pressure deep and urgent, like I’m full, ready to burst. I panic for a second, thinking it’s pee, because nothing like this has ever happened, not in six years of faking it, not ever.
“Anton, wait—I think—”
But he doesn’t stop, his eyes lifting to mine, dark and commanding.
“Tremble for me,printsessa,” he says, voice muffled against me, but the words hit like a command, his tongue pressing flat against my clit, rubbing in circles while his fingers thrust faster, harder. “I’m going to make you cum so hard.”
The dirty promise in his tone, the way he says it like I belong here, with him, makes my body clench, and then it happens—a rush, wet and explosive, squirting out as I come harder than before, my whole body convulsing.
“Fuuuuccckkkk,” the word tears from my throat in a long, broken cry.
It’s not pee. It’s me, gushing, soaking his hand, his chin, and he groans like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted, lapping it up, drawing it out until I’m sobbing, shaking, my legs weak around him. I slump back against the mirror, chest heaving, tears streaming because I’ve never felt this—never come like that, never squirted, never known my body could do this.
He rises, lips wet and shining, his hand cupping my face, thumb brushing my tears.
“You want more?” he asks, his fingers tightening on my chin, demanding an answer.
