I speed up just enough to make my breasts bounce under my dress. His gaze drops, hungry, feral. Then his hands come up and in one fast motion, before I’ve even registered what’s happening, he has torn the front of the dress apart.
He groans as he watches my breasts spill from the lace cups of my bra.
“Touch them,” I command.
His hands fly up like they’ve been waiting for permission their whole lives. Big palms cup me, thumbs brushing the stiff peaks. I arch into the contact, riding him harder now with deep, punishing strokes that make me shiver with ever pass.
He pinches. Rolls. Tugs just hard enough to make me gasp.
“Yes,” I moan. “Just like that—”
One hand leaves my breast and slides down to where we’re joined. His thumb finds my swollen clit and presses firmly against it.
I cry out.
“Give it to me,” he growls. “Come on my cock. Let me feel you milk me.”
I’m already there, coiling, tightening, right on the edge.
I grab his hair with both hands, yank his head back, and kiss him like I’m trying to devour him. Teeth. Tongue. Desperate. Filthy.
He groans into my mouth, thumb never stopping its rhythmic circles, hips finally snapping up to meet me because I’m too far gone to punish him for it.
The orgasm hits like a freight train.
I scream his name, clamp down so hard he curses in Russian, and shatter around him, wave after wave of pulsing heat, slick gushing over his cock and down his thighs.
He doesn’t wait for me to finish coming.
The second my inner muscles start to flutter he plants both hands on my ass, lifts me, and slams me back down in brutal, claiming strokes that make my teeth rattle.
Then he buries himself to the hilt and comes with a broken, guttural sound that vibrates through both of us.
I feel the hot, thick pulses flooding me, so much it spills out around him, dripping onto his slacks, the chair, my thighs.
He keeps rocking into me through the aftershocks, shallow little thrusts, smearing his release deeper like he’s marking me from the inside out.
When we finally still, I’m draped over his chest, both of us slick with sweat and sex, breathing like we’ve run miles.
His arms come around me. One hand strokes my spine. The other cups the curve of my ass.
I feel his lips press to my temple.
“Mine,” he whispers, voice wrecked. “All fucking mine.”
I smile against his throat.
“Yours,” I agree.
Then I clench around him on purpose just to hear him groan again.
He laughs, low and dangerous.
“You’re going to kill me, wife.”
I lift my head, meet those silver eyes, and smile the wickedest smile I know how to make.
“Good,” I murmur. “Then you’ll die happy.”
