“Now,” she whispers against my lips. “Now.”
I sink into her in one slow stroke and have to stop halfway just to breathe. She’s molten. Perfect. I’m shaking with it.
She moans like it hurts, like she’s needed this for too long.
“Jesus, you’re thick,” she breathes, voice wrecked.
My hands tremble where I grip her thighs.
She rides me with bruising force.
I let her set the rhythm at first, but when she clenches around me I lose the script, hands bruising her hips, thrusting up to meet her.
I lift us, lay her on her back, pin her wrists above her head, and fuck her with everything I’ve been holding back since the moment I met her.
She makes a sound, surprise, want, permission, and it pushes me deeper.
I thrust up to meet her, hips snapping with force I didn’t know I had.
She kisses me, staking a claim.
Bites my lip when I get too soft. Tells me I’m hers in a dozen filthy ways with every roll of her hips.
She clenches around me, shuddering.
“Fuck, fuck, Vitaly.”
“I’ve got you,” I whisper. One hand on her throat, the other gripping her ass. “Come for me, kroshka.”
And she does. Loud, unrestrained, nails carving into my shoulders as she grinds out every wave of it.
I follow with a broken curse, spilling into her with a raw sound I don’t make for anyone else.
Afterward, she slumps against me, both of us still panting, her hands tangled in my hair.
“You’re mine now,” she whispers.
“I always was.”
I don’t know how long we stay like that, clinging to each other, skin flushed and damp, breaths slowing into sync.
She shifts first, nuzzling my neck. “That was…” She exhales like the word won’t form. “Yeah.”
I smile into her hair. “Yeah.”
She reaches to smooth her dress.
I catch her hand. “No rush.”
“You offering round two?” Her voice is hoarse, lips curled.
“Not yet.” I nod toward the bar, where a forgotten carafe of water sweats beside a basket of black bread. “You need to eat.”
She laughs, but it turns into a small sigh.
I pour two glasses and pass her one.
She takes it, sipping slow, her gaze softening.
