I lift my head enough to meet her eyes. “No, you don’t. You hate that you want me this badly. That’s not the same thing.”
“Semantics,” she gasps.
“Is it?” I curl my fingers deeper. “Because from where I’m kneeling, my wife is begging for my cock. That doesn’t sound like hate to me.”
“Stop calling me that.”
“Why? It’s what you are.” I press a kiss to her inner thigh. “Dinara Baronova. My wife. Mine.”
“You don’t own me.”
“Maybe not. But I do own your pleasure.”
I seal my mouth over her clit and suck hard, curling my fingers just right.
She shatters with a scream loud enough to wake the entire floor. Her body convulses, pulling against the restraints as the orgasm tears through her like a storm.
I work her through it, not letting up until she’s sobbing, until her body slackens, trembling. When she finally comes down, I slowly withdraw my fingers.
“That was one,” I say, watching her try to focus through the haze.
Her eyes flutter open, dazed and glassy. “One?”
“That was one orgasm, wife. You’re going to give me much, much more than that.”
DINARA
Before I can catch my breath, his tongue pushes inside, working me with slow, devastating strokes. The intensity steals my breath, every nerve ending raw and oversensitive from the first orgasm.
The wet sounds of his mouth on me fill the room. Everything is so much more intense. From the scratch of his stubble against my inner thighs, to the way his hands grip my hips to hold me exactly where he wants me.
It’s overwhelming and perfect and I hate how much I need this, how thoroughly he’s wrecked me.
We’re married.
This is my husband.
The thought surfaces through the haze of pleasure. I’m wearing his ring. I uttered vows. It makes every touch feel more weighted and meaningful.
The second orgasm builds faster than the first, pleasure coiling tight in my core. I’m so sensitive, every stroke of his tongue makes me whimper. When the release hits, I scream his name, my hips grinding against his face despite the restraints, shameless.
He pulls back, his chin glistening. His chest heaves as he fights for control, and my gaze drops to his cock, rigid against his stomach. The veins stand out along the length, the head flushed dark and weeping.
He wants to be inside me so badly. It’s written all over his face, in the way his fingers flex against my thighs, his gaze locked on my soaked core.
His mouth finds my clit again and I nearly sob, the sensation too much. I try to pull away but the restraints keep me spread and helpless, at his mercy.
“Please, I can’t. It’s too much,” I sob, tears streaming down my face.
“Yes, you can.” His voice is rough, commanding. “One more for me, moya zhena. Show me you can take what I give you.”
Moya zhena. My wife.
The Russian phrase wraps around my heart and squeezes. He could have said it in English but he didn’t. He chose our language, the one connecting us to the same brutal world, the same blood and history.
The third orgasm builds slower but more intense, like it’s being hauled up from some hidden depth.
He twists his finger in my ass and slides two back into my pussy, finding that devastating spot inside me, the one making my vision go white. One more hard suck on my clit and I break apart. I sob his name as every muscle in my body convulses, and then something happens I’ve never experienced before.
