He’s already hard.
There’s no teasing, no easing in. One brutal thrust drives him deep inside me.
A sharp cry escapes as pain and pleasure collide. He fills me so completely the pressure reaches my stomach.
The glass is cold against my back while his body presses hot against the front of mine. His hips snap forward again and again, hammering me against the window as if he’s trying to break straight through it.
His mouth brushes my ear.
“Let them see down there,” he growls. “Let every fucker on the street look up and watch who owns this pussy. Who makes you scream my name.”
His hands clamp around my hips, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. This isn’t just sex. Every thrust feels like a claim, like he’s carving his name into every inch of me.
“He erased you,” he snarls against my neck. “I’m rewriting you.”
Another deep thrust drives the air from my lungs.
“You’re not a Blackwood anymore.”
He slams into me again.
“You’re a Morozov. You breathe my air. You bleed my blood.”
A sob breaks out of me—not from pain, but from the overwhelming rush of him filling every hollow space inside me, every crack my father left behind.
He's not just inside my body. He's burning away the betrayal, replacing it with a dark strength.
“Make me forget him,” I beg, legs locking tighter around his waist. “Burn him out of me.”
He growls something filthy in Russian, hips slamming harder, like he’s sealing the words into my bones.
I bite his neck. He groans, thrusting even deeper.
I’m close again. My clit grinds hard against his pelvis every time he goes all the way in.
“Come for me,” he orders. “Come on my cock, wife.”
I orgasm harder than before, clenching tight around him and crying out his name.
He comes right after.
"That's it, take every drop," he rasps, spilling deep.
He doesn’t pull out right away. He stays buried inside me, letting the heat of him settle.
He holds me there. His forehead presses against mine, both of us breathing like we just fought a war.
"Say it," he growls.
“I’m yours,” I whisper. “All yours.”
He kisses me once more, slowly this time, then carries me to the bed.
We collapse on the dark sheets, his arms locked around me.
For the first time since this started, I don’t feel empty.
I feel claimed.
