I grip her hips and thrust back in, harder this time, burying myself to the hilt in one smooth stroke. She cries out, fingers fisting the sheets.
“Too much?” I ask, already pulling back.
“No—more,” she pants. “Please.”
I set a brutal rhythm, snapping my hips forward, the sound of skin meeting skin filling the room alongside her moans. Every thrust is deep, claiming. I reach around and find her clit, rubbing tight circles while I pound into her. She’s soaked, dripping down my cock, her walls fluttering around me like she’s already close again.
“Fuck, you feel perfect,” I rasp, leaning over her, one hand braced beside hers on the bed, the other still working her clit. I bite down on her shoulder, not enough to break skin, but enoughto leave a mark, and she clenches hard around me, a sharp keen escaping her.
I test her limits with every snap of my hips, every rough pinch of her nipple when I reach under to cup her breast, every time I pull her hair to arch her neck back so I can growl filthy praise into her ear.
“You’re mine now. This body takes what I give it. Say it.”
“Yours,” she gasps, pushing back to meet every thrust. “I’m yours—Akyl—harder—”
I give it to her. I fuck her like I’ve been dreaming about for weeks: deep, relentless, one hand fisted in her hair, the other gripping her hip hard enough to bruise. She’s loud now, unrestrained, crying my name into the mattress as another orgasm rips through her. Her whole body locks up, pulsing around my cock, and it drags me right to the edge with her.
But I don’t let go yet.
I slow just enough to flip her onto her back again, hooking her legs over my shoulders so I can drive even deeper. Her eyes fly open, wild and glassy, and she claws at my shoulders, nails raking down my chest.
“Look at me,” I command.
She does. Those storm-sea eyes lock on mine as I fuck her through the aftershocks, chasing my own release. The angle has her gasping with every stroke, hitting that spot inside her that makes her tremble.
“I want to feel you come again,” I tell her, voice rough. “One more time. Let me feel it.”
She shakes her head, overwhelmed, but her body betrays her, clenching, fluttering, building fast. I reach between us and pinch her clit gently, then rub firm and fast, and she shatters with a broken cry, eyes rolling back, legs shaking against my shoulders.
The sight and feel of her completely undone finally breaks me. I bury myself deep and come with a guttural groan, pulsing inside her, filling her as pleasure whites out everything else.
I lower her legs, one at a time and then immediately rolls us so she’s draped over my chest, my arms wrapped tight around her, my cock still weeping inside her. My hands stroke down her back, soothing now, checking for any sign of real pain.
“Talk to me,” I murmur against her hair, voice still hoarse. “Good or bad?”
She laughs breathlessly, pressing a kiss to my collarbone. “All good. So fucking good. I didn’t know I could take that… or want it that much.”
I tilt her chin up, searching her face again. There’s a flush on her cheeks, a few red marks from my mouth along her jaw and neck, but her eyes are bright, alive in a way I’ve never seen before.
“You can take more,” I say quietly, a promise and a warning. “And I’m going to learn exactly how much. Every limit. Every boundary. Until I know this body better than you do.”
She shivers and curls closer, her fingers tracing the scratches she left on my chest. “I’m counting on it.”
I kiss the top of her head, already feeling the hunger stir again. We have all night. All week. The rest of our lives.
And I intend to spend every minute of it making sure she never doubts again that her body was made for pleasure as much as it was made to thrive.
Epilogue
One year later
Akyl
Rovin's son. Eight pounds, two ounces, an hour old when I held him, and already bearing the expression of a man who finds everything faintly beneath him.
He is, without question, the most unsettling thing I have ever encountered. I have been in rooms with people who would flatten a city block if the money was right. I have sat across tables from men whose names make governments nervous. None of them did to me what eight pounds of silent, sleeping Mostovoi just did.
Rovin placed him in my arms with the careful deliberateness of a man handing over something that has restructured every priority he has ever held, and I took him, and the boy opened his eyes for two seconds, looked directly at me with Claudia's amber eyes in a face that's already all Rovin's angles, and then went back to sleep as though I weren't worth the energy.
