I reach between us, fingers wrapping around him. He hisses through his teeth, hips jerking forward into my grip. He’s slick with us, velvet over steel, and I give him one slow, deliberate stroke from root to tip.
His jaw flexes. “Tanya—”
“Can you go again?” My voice comes out huskier than I expect. I stroke him again, thumb sweeping over the sensitive head, collecting the bead of pre-cum that wells there. “Because I want to watch you come this time. I want to see exactly what I do to you.”
Something raw flickers across his face. Hunger. Awe. Like my words just punched through every wall he’s ever built.
“Jesus,” he mutters, almost reverent. “You have no idea what you’re asking for.”
“I think I do.” I guide him forward until the thick head nudges my swollen folds again and I press the hot and insistent tip against my clit. “I want you to come on me. All over my pussy. I want to feel it. See it. Watch how much you still have even after you already filled me once.”
His eyes flare. A muscle ticks in his cheek. He looks like a man who’s just been handed the keys to something he’s been dying for.
“You’re trying to kill me,” he says, voice gravel-rough.
“No.” I tilt my hips and spread my knees further, letting his length slide through my folds, coating him in the mess we already made. “I’m trying to make you lose control. Again. Because I like it.” I squeeze him on the next upstroke. “I like watching you fall apart because of me.”
He curses under his breath, Russian or Gaelic, I can’t tell, and then he’s moving. One hand grips the base of his cock, guiding himself so the head notches right against my entrance without pushing in. the other rests on my knee, pushing it down slightly while his eyes are pinned to the mess he has already made of my pussy. He strokes himself slowly.
“Look at you,” he rasps. “Spread open, dripping with me, and still begging for more. Fuck, Tanya. See how hard you make me? Even after I just drained my balls inside you, look at this cock, still leaking for you. Still ready to mark you again.”
The words hit like sparks. Dirty. Worshipful. Exactly what I didn’t know I needed.
I reach down, spreading myself wider with two fingers so he has an unobstructed view. “Then do it,” I whisper. “Come on me. Show me what I do to you.”
He works himself faster now, the tip bumping my clit with every pass. His breathing turns ragged, muscles in his forearm standing out as he holds himself right there, right on the edge. His eyes lift to mine as his features soften with pleasure.
“I’m going to paint this pretty pussy,” he growls. “Going to cover you in it so you can feel exactly how much I want you. How much I’ve always wanted you.”
The first hot stripe lands across my clit and lips, thick and white, shocking in its heat. I gasp. He groans like it hurts, but keeps going. Another pulse, another rope, landing higher thistime, splashing over my mound, dripping down my folds. He aims the next one deliberately, watching it land right where I’m still open and sensitive, mixing with everything already there until I’m a slick, glistening mess.
He milks the last of it out with a low, broken sound, smearing the head through the cum he just spilled, spreading it over me like he’s claiming territory.
When he finally stills, chest heaving, he looks down at the mess he’s made and something possessive and reverent crosses his face.
“Look at that,” he murmurs, almost to himself. Voice wrecked. “Look at how much you pull out of me.”
I reach down, fingers sliding through the warm, sticky evidence, then bring them to my lips and taste us. His eyes darken impossibly further.
“You’re dangerous,” he says, but there’s a smile in it, small and stunned, like he can’t quite believe I’m real.
“Damn right,” I whisper. “And I’m just getting started.”
Aidan
By the time we're dressed and walking up the path to the main house, the morning is bright and the air smells like cut grass and coffee.
Tanya walks beside me in a pair of black trousers and a cream sweater that she pulled from the closet Ma organized. Her hair is still damp at the ends. She's wearing no makeup and she looks younger without it. Softer. Like a different version of the woman who walked down the aisle yesterday surrounded by walls of her own making.
She's quiet, and I can see her working through things behind those careful eyes, and I let her do it without interrupting because some processes need silence to complete.
We're halfway across the lawn when she speaks.
"Will they know?"
"Will who know what?"
She gives me a look. "Your family. Will they know that we..." She gestures vaguely between us, and I watch a faint flush creep along her cheekbones. Tanya Savitskaya…well, Orlova now…I think with a beat of pride, the Ice Queen. Blushing. I burn that into my mind as one of the best things I've ever witnessed.
