“These—fuck, you bought these for me?” I hook my thumbs in the waistband, dragging the panties down slowly, leaving her bare except for the stockings.
“You’re the champion,” she breathes. “I decided you wanted a proper celebration.”
“Turn over,” I say, but keep the voice gentle, and stroke her naked shoulder. She rolls, hair spilling over her shoulders, back arched, ass raised in insolent offering.
I palm her ass, squeezing, and push the edge of my palm in her cleft, opening her butt slightly. “You like that, Zlata? You like it when I take control?”
“Today you take whatever you want,” she breathes, voice rough.
I run my palms over her back, mapping her smooth skin, remembering every inch.
“I missed you so much,” I whisper in her ear, leaning close, letting my body weight press her into the mattress.
“Then, let me make it up to you,” she whispers, raising her head, arching her neck, offering me skin to cherish.
I kneel behind her, run my palms down her back, over her round ass, and spread her legs wider to give me an undisturbed view of her pink pussy.
“God, look at you—so fucking wet, already begging for it.” I slide one finger inside, and the wetness sends a bolt through my body straight to my cock. She pushes back with her hips, rubbing shamelessly at my palm, fucking my finger. I slide two more fingers, and her movements get frantic, pushing back and forth, moaning.
“You want to make yourself come on my fingers?” I ask. “Too bad, Golden Girl, too bad.”
With that, I pull my fingers out, enjoying her disappointed cry.
“Please,” she whines, squirming on the bed.
“Seems like you missed me, too,” I say, leaning closer to her and directing my fingers to her mouth. “Have a taste of your delicious pussy.”
She sucks my fingers, her ass making desperate, filthy circles. I clamp a hand on her hip, holding her still.
“So demanding,” I lean in, teeth scraping her shoulder, one hand sliding between her thighs. I circle her clit, slow, relentless, until she’s shaking.
“Say it,” I demand. “Tell me what you want.”
“You,” she gasps, barely coherent. “Your dick. Please—”
I tease her entrance once more, spreading her folds, stretching her, circling.
“If you ask so nicely…”
I let her lie there, enjoying her helpless squirming, while I unzip my race suit and pull it down together with my boxers. I reach for the condom she prepared on the edge of the bed and tear the wrapper without further comment. Roll it on my shaft and lean closer, teasing her entrance with it. She is so slick that my resolve is ripped away with the touch.
I thrust in all at once, burying myself to the hilt. She cries out, back arching, hands fisted in the covers, but still where I told her. I set a punishing rhythm, hips snapping, one palm still pressed firm to her lower back, holding her exactly where I want her.
“You’re not coming until I say so,” I warn, voice thick with anticipation, but she only grins over her shoulder—a challenge, as much as a promise.
She rolls her hips back into me, grinding slowly, taking me even deeper with every movement. I groan, nearly losing my rhythm as her muscles flutter around me, the control suddenly more hers than mine.
“You like that?” she gasps, looking at me through her hair, eyes wild, hungry. “Like it when I take you all the way in?”
“Fuck, yes,” I breathe, bracing myself, hands gripping her hips, but she reaches behind her, catches one of my hands, andpulls it up her body until my palm rests across her heart. I can feel it pounding, wild and unguarded.
She rocks against me, long and slow, making me work for every inch. I match her pace, letting her set the tempo—sometimes slow and deep, sometimes fast and urgent, our bodies tangling and untangling as we both chase the edge.
Her hand slips between her thighs, fingers circling her clit in tight, fast spirals. Her voice breaks on a moan. “Harder. Don’t stop. Right there—”
I slam into her just the way she wants, matching the rhythm of her fingers. The slap of skin on skin is music, her breathless cries an anthem. She pushes back with every thrust, greedy for it, taking and giving in equal measure.
“God, Zlata,” I pant. “You feel so fucking good—don’t stop, please, don’t stop—”
