“We’re not done,” he says quietly. “Not tonight, not tomorrow. I’m going to keep you like this until you can’t stand.”
“Good,” I whisper, smiling. “That’s all I want.”
He rolls onto his back and drags me with him, straddling his lap again. His cock is still slick and half-hard, resting heavy against my pussy. He slides his thumb over my clit, slow, almost lazy.
“You’re not asleep yet,” he says quietly. His voice is raw silk, frayed with lust.
“Neither are you,” I murmur, letting my hips sway forward.
His hand grips my hair and tugs. “Ride me again. Slow this time. I want to feel every inch.”
I do exactly that. I lower myself onto him, inch by inch, until he fills me whole. I move slow, rolling my hips, letting the feeling crest with no rush. He holds my waist, eyes locked to mine, breathing with me. We rock like that for a long, breathless stretch, no harsh thrusts, just relentless full-friction grind. It burns in the best possible way. I moan quietly. He groans with me. This becomes a slow-motion kind of intimacy. He keeps whispering filth—“You’re addictive. I can’t stop.” “You’re perfect for me.” “Stay on me forever”—and the words sink into my skin as deep as his cock.
The world narrows to the sounds of our bodies, the slick slide, the broken breaths. He strokes my clit, careful circles, and warmth shivers up my spine. When I come again, it’s silent and drawn-out, just a long, shaking exhale that leaves me trembling on top of him. He doesn’t stop. He rolls us suddenly, pinning me under him again, hooking one leg over his shoulder, pushing deep. He fucks me through the aftershocks, grinds his pelvis tomy clit, works me past exhaustion. I clutch at his shoulders, nails dragging down his back. He kisses me until I can’t think.
We shift again—he’s behind me, spooning, cock sliding in slick and easy. He holds me tight, one arm under my head, the other gripping my breast. He thrusts shallow and steady, whispering filthy promises against my neck. We lie like that, him rolling his hips up, me pushing back, the rhythm hypnotic. Water and sweat dry on our skin. We’re breathing hard, but I can feel him close again.
“Come with me this time,” he murmurs.
I nod, barely able to speak, and he angles deeper, rubbing my clit with his knuckles until the pleasure spikes again. We crest together, bodies pressed tight, his final release pouring hot inside me, mine spilling right along with it. He groans into my hair. I whimper into the pillow. He doesn’t let go.
We keep moving even after that—slow, lazy thrusts—until the motions get softer, until eventually the exhaustion catches us both. I roll to face him. He pulls me close, keeps his softening cock still inside me like a seal, arms wrapping around my waist. My body aches deliciously everywhere. I can feel his heartbeat pounding against mine. Hours pass like that, until the corners of dawn begin to show.
Sergei lies beside me, one hand on my stomach, the other brushing my hair back as our breathing slows. My legs still shake from everything he did to me, but he is already shifting back into the man who hunts.
I curl into him. “Tell me the plan.”
He nods once, serious now. “We start with what we know. Ilya didn’t abandon the cottage.”
I lift my head. “How do you know he didn’t?”
“He left too much behind,” Sergei answers. “He moved you fast because you told me too much. But he didn’t have time to finish. He always comes back for his core hardware. That cottage holds his main tools. He needs the drives. He needs the detonator link. He needs the server keys.”
I breathe out slowly. “So that’s how you know he’ll return.”
“That, and the logs,” he says. “Andrei pulled access patterns from old routes. Ilya circles his safehouses every twelve to sixteen hours after a move. He checks the site, collects what he needs, wipes it, then burns it if needed. He follows the same cycle every time. It’s habit. He can’t break it. He thinks it hides him.”
I tilt closer. “So we know the window.”
“Yes,” Sergei says. “He moved you three hours before I reached the house. That means he will return tonight.”
I feel heat rise under my ribs. “Then we go tonight.”
He smiles, slow and dark. “Exactly.”
I lay a hand on his chest. “Tell me the rest.”
He shifts, propping himself on one elbow. His voice stays low and steady.
“We keep the house looking normal, the guards tight, and all patterns the same. Any sudden changes will set him off, since Ilya will be watching. He’s got my own men reporting to him, probably telling him how panicked I am in my own walls.”
We keep guards tight. We keep patterns the same. No sudden changes. Ilya watches everything. He expects me to be panicking inside these walls.”
“And?” I ask.
“We leave under the cover of that pattern,” he says. “Vlad stays here. He walks the halls like usual. Lights stay on. Phones stay active. Cameras show normal movement. Anyone watching will think I’m guarding you and Nadia.”
“But we won’t be here,” I say.
