A sob tears from my lips. "Oh God, Andrei, Andrei… oh God, oh God…"
"Fuck,ptitsa,yes," he groans, his cock moving in and out of me in long, slow thrusts. Each time his hips meet mine, his taut flesh rubbing against my swollen clit, I let out another gasping sob. "Fuck, I don't want to come yet." He lets go of my wrists, gripping my thighs again to part them wide so he can see himself sliding in and out of me.
"Don't." I clutch at his arms, arching against him. "I don't want it to stop. Oh God. Please don't stop."
"I don't want it to, either." The words rasp from his chest, his jaw clenched, his eyes wild with lust. "Fuck, I'll hold it as long as I can…fuck, your pussy is so fucking perfect…"
He rocks into me again, his muscles flexing with the effort of holding back. It's so good. I feel tears rolling down my cheeksfrom the intensity of it, my heart beating so hard I feel like it might burst out of my chest.How am I ever going to leave, knowing it can be like this?
I don't know what to do with the way it makes me feel—like I'm coming apart and being put back together at the same time, like every slow thrust is rewriting something inside me.
I touch his face, trace the sharp line of his cheekbone, the scar that cuts through his eyebrow. His eyes are closed now, his jaw working with the effort of fucking me without losing control.
"Andrei," I breathe, and his eyes open, locking onto mine. The intensity in his gaze steals my breath. He's looking at me like I'm the only thing in the world that matters, like everything else—the war, his men, the danger—has fallen away and there's only this. Only us.
He leans forward and kisses me again, deep and slow, his tongue sliding against mine in the same rhythm as his hips. I'm drowning in sensation—the slide of his body inside mine, the weight of him pressing me down, the taste of him, the sound of his breathing harsh and uneven in my ear. My hands slide into his hair, and I hold on as the pleasure builds, different from before. It spreads through my entire body, all warmth and pressure, and he rocks into me again.
"Look at me," he murmurs, and I realize my eyes have drifted closed.
I force them open, and the connection when our gazes meet is almost too much. But I don't look away. His hand slides between us, finding where we're joined, and his thumb circles my clit with perfect pressure. The added sensation makes me gasp, makes my hips arch up to meet his, and he groans.
"That's it,ptitsa," he murmurs. "Let me feel you."
The pleasure builds and builds. It's gradual, rolling, like waves getting higher and higher until I'm not sure where one ends and the next begins. Sounds spill from my lips, softwhimpers and gasps, his name, over and over. His movements stay controlled, even as I can see the strain in his face.
And then I come again.
The waves roll through me, and I feel him break. He surges into me, the piercings intensifying my pleasure, and I feel him stiffen and throb, feel the hard crush of his mouth against mine, devouring me for the first time tonight as the gentleness breaks apart and he takes me. His tongue thrusts into my mouth, his cock thrusts into my body, and spurt after spurt of hot cum starts to fill me, as I tighten around him, milking him in spasms. I cry out, clutching at him, and he buries his face in my neck, his hips stuttering as he follows me over the edge.
Tears are rolling down my temples. I'm still coming, and so is he, a flood of heat inside of me as I arch and twitch against him. He groans, gasping, and it finally starts to subside. He collapses against me, careful not to crush me with his full weight, and we lie there tangled together, both of us breathing hard and trembling.
I don't want him to move. I'm not ready to turn this back into what it was before—captor and captive, criminal and victim. This is terrifying and confusing and I don't understand how I got here, how I went from being kidnapped to lying in his bed, holding him like I never want to let go.
He shifts slightly, and I tighten my arms around him instinctively. He makes a soft sound—almost a laugh, but not quite—and presses a kiss to my shoulder. "I'm not going anywhere," he murmurs.
The words should be a threat. A reminder that I'm trapped here, that I don't have a choice. Instead, they feel like a promise.
He finally pulls out of me, and I feel the loss immediately. But he doesn't go far. He rolls onto his side and pulls me with him, tucking me against his chest, one arm wrapped around my waist and the other sliding under my head.
I should feel trapped. Confined. But instead, I feel safe. That realization should terrify me more than anything else that's happened. It should send me scrambling away from him, putting distance between us, rebuilding the walls I've let crumble.
But I don't move. I just press closer, resting my head on his chest, listening to the steady thump of his heartbeat beneath my ear.
His hand strokes slowly up and down my spine, and the gentleness of the touch makes my eyes sting again. I lie there, breathing him in, feeling the rise and fall of his chest, the warmth of his skin against mine.
"What are we doing?" I whisper into the darkness.
His hand pauses for a moment, then continues its slow path up and down my back. "I don't know."
The honesty in his voice—the admission that he's just as lost as I am—should be frightening. Should make me feel more uncertain, more vulnerable. Instead, it makes me feel less alone.
"I should hate you," I say quietly.
"Yes."
"I should want to leave."
"Yes."
