“You feel that?” he pants. “That’s me. All of me. No one else gets this. No one else gets you.”
“Yes—”
“Say it.”
“Yours,” I gasp. “I’m yours.”
He groans like the word physically hurts him. His rhythm stutters, turns erratic. One hand slides between us; rough fingertips find my nub and rub fast, messy circles.
“Fuck. Your pussy is milking me. Your pussy wants my cum. Wants to be full so full of me.”
“Yes,” I scream. Because in this moment I know it’s true. I want that, every part of my body wants that. I want whatever will get me crashing through this wave. How can something so obscene feel so good?
He grunts with each thrust now as he leans back a little to watch what he is doing to me.
“You’re made for me, Kira. You’re made for my cock. My cum.” His words are fractured now, breaking apart beneath the pleasure that’s rising in him as much as it is me.
“Fuck, you’re too tight,” he moans.
My body snaps tight and then I shatter with a scream. I clench around him so hard he curses in low, broken Russian, and thenhe’s driving deep and holding there as heat floods me in heavy pulses. Both of us taking what we need to draw out the pleasure for as long as possible.
He doesn’t move for a long moment. Just stays buried, hips flush to mine, breathing against my neck like he’s trying to remember how his lungs work.
I feel the warm slip of him when he finally eases back, but he doesn’t pull out all the way. He stays half-seated, one arm braced on the counter beside my hip, the other wrapped around my lower back, keeping me pinned against him.
His thumb strokes absently over the curve of my ass.
My dress is rucked up around my waist, panties long gone, and beneath my entrance I can feel the slow trickle of him. Hot, thick and undeniable.
He finally lifts his head and looks at me.
“I meant it,” he says quietly. “The sorry.”
“I know.”
He brushes a strand of hair off my damp forehead. The touch is so gentle it almost hurts.
"I see you," he says quietly. "I should have said it sooner."
I close my eyes. Feel his breath against my lips. Feel the weight of his hands on my hips, steady and warm and sure.
"Don't forget again," I tell him.
He pulls back. Looks at me with those pale eyes, still raw, still open in a way I've never seen them.
"I won't," he says.
Anton
I don't forget.
Not that night, when she finishes the pirozhki like nothing happened and sets them in front of me golden and perfect and I eat four of them without speaking. Not the next morning, when I wake up with her back pressed against my chest and my arm around her waist and realize I'm the one who reached for her in my sleep.
Not the morning after that, when she's humming something in the kitchen and I stand in the doorway for a full minute just listening before she notices me.
Something rewired in my head during that argument. Or maybe it was already rewiring, slowly, day by day, every time she set a plate in front of me or touched my arm or turned my house into something worth coming home to. Maybe the argument just burned away whatever was left of my ability to pretend I didn't feel it.
I feel it.
