Raw. Breathless. Shaky in places she probably wishes it wasn’t. Her voice breaks on my name like she’s not in control of it at all, and that alone is enough to make my grip tighten on her hips.
“Again,” she gasps, pushing back against me. “Please, again?—”
I give it to her harder this time, my mouth at her throat, my hand sliding up to cup her breast as I move inside her in deep, relentless strokes. The suite fills with the sounds of it, skin against skin, her moans, my curses, the wet drag of her body taking me over and over.
And every little sound she makes drives me closer.
Because this isn’t performance. This isn’t some dark, silky voice spun through a speaker.
This is Zatanna, shaking in my arms and falling apart for me.
Mine.
The thought comes fast and vicious and far too honest.
She’s clinging to me now, one hand reaching back to grip my hip, the other tangled with mine where I’ve braced it against the sofa. Her body opens more with every thrust, hotter and slicker, and when I angle just right she cries out and goes rigid.
“There,” she whimpers. “Aleksei, right there?—”
I nearly lose it. “Fuck,” I groan, pressing a kiss to the back of her neck, then biting lightly when she clenches around me.
She turns her face toward mine, flushed and wrecked and impossibly beautiful. I catch her mouth in a savage kiss while I keep driving into her, swallowing every broken moan she gives me.
“Don’t stop,” she begs into my mouth.
I wouldn’t if the world were ending.
I slide a hand between us, finding her clit, and the second I touch her she breaks. Her whole body arches hard against me, her cry sharp and helpless, the sound tipping me so close to the edge I can barely think through it.
That sound. God. Nothing she’s ever recorded compares to this.
The rough catch in her voice. The way she says my name like she can’t hold it in. The way her moans turn desperate and unevenbecause this is not scripted, not polished, not meant for anyone but us.
It feels real in the most dangerous way possible.
And I’m gone.
I thrust deep and hold there as release tears through me, a low, broken sound dragged out of my chest while I come inside her, pulse after pulse, my forehead dropping to her shoulder as I fight for breath.
She’s still trembling around me, her own aftershocks running through her body and into mine, making the whole thing feel even deeper, even more intimate, even more impossible to walk back.
For a long moment, neither of us moves.
I stay inside her, my arms around her, both of us breathing like we’ve just outrun something huge and terrible.
Then she lets out the softest little laugh, dazed and spent. “Well,” she whispers.
I kiss the side of her neck, still trying to slow my heartbeat. “Well,” I echo.
She goes limp against me for a moment, still catching her breath, and then, in a dazed little voice, she says, “That’s better than anything I’ve ever produced. Holy shit.”
I still. My hands stay on her hips, my mouth still near her shoulder, but everything else in me goes rigid. “What?”
She blinks, clearly still floating somewhere between orgasm and shock. “What?”
I pull back just enough to look at her face. She’s flushed, wrecked, hair everywhere, and absolutely not prepared for the expression on mine.
“Zatanna.” My voice comes out low. Dangerous in a very different way.
