I shake my head. Then I lift my hips, push my panties aside, and lower myself onto him slowly.
The stretch is immediate, intense, almost shocking after the teasing and fingers and the way he fills me so completely. My breath catches. My hands fly to his shoulders. His grip on my waist turns bruising, but he does not move. Not one inch.
“That’s it,” he says, voice rough. “Take what you need.” The tenderness in that command nearly breaks me.
I sink down farther.
He lets me.
Every inch feels huge, hot, overwhelming. By the time I’m fully seated in his lap, I’m shaking again, forehead dropping to his shoulder while I try to breathe through the fullness of him.
“Aleksei…”
“I know.” His mouth presses to my temple, my cheek, the corner of my lips. “You’re doing so well.”
I laugh once, shaky and half-lost. “You’re not making it easier.”
“I’m not trying to.” That honesty is its own kind of sin.
I lift my head and kiss him again, then start to move. Tentatively at first. A small roll of my hips. A careful rise and fall.
His eyes lock on mine the second he feels it, and the look in them is enough to make my pulse race. Hunger. Pride. Puremale satisfaction at the fact that I’m on top of him, taking him, learning him.
My hands brace on his shoulders and I move again, a little harder this time, the friction instantly sharper from this angle. I gasp against his mouth.
“There,” he says. “Again.”
I do it again. And again.
Soon there’s nothing tentative left. Just the slick slide of my body over his, the heat of his hands guiding my hips when I lose rhythm, the deep, helpless sounds I keep making every time I take him all the way in.
He’s holding on by threads now. I can feel it in the way his fingers dig into my skin, the way his head falls back for one second when I grind down just right.
“You feel…” He breaks off, jaw tight. “Jesus, Zatanna.”
I like hearing him lose words. I like it way too much.
So I kiss his throat and move faster. That breaks whatever was left of his patience.
His mouth crashes into mine, his hands taking over my hips completely now, driving me down on him in hard, controlled thrusts that turn my thoughts to static. The seat creaks beneath us. The cabin feels too warm, too small, too full of him.
I moan into his mouth, hands in his hair, and he answers with a rough groan that tells me he’s not nearly as composed as he looks.
“You wanted to know how far you’d go,” he says against my lips.
I’m barely following the words. “What?”
The corner of his mouth lifts in a savage almost-smile. “Now I know.”
Then he thrusts up hard enough to make me cry out. Urgency takes over after that. No more teasing. No more patience.
All that’s left is just frantic kisses and his hands on my ass, my hips, my back, pulling me down, lifting me up, making me ride him exactly the way he wants while the plane hums around us and the whole world seems to narrow to this seat, this body, this impossible man.
I can feel my orgasm building fast again, hotter this time, almost painful in its intensity.
He feels it, too. His hand slides between us and finds my clit, thumb circling in fast, ruthless strokes while he fucks up into me.
“There,” he says, voice dark with concentration. “Let go.”
