Page 92 of Cruel Obsession

“No underwear?” she asks, voice low and husky.

“Not today,” I say, enjoying her reaction.

The first time we fucked in my room, it was a punishment—for her intrusion into my private space, for making me want her when I shouldn’t. Then it was pleasure, a desperate attempt to get rid of this visceral pull we have. This time feels different again—less about escape and more about connection.

I reach beneath her skirt, fingers finding the edge of her panties. The cotton is already damp, evidence of her desire that sends a fresh surge of heat to my balls. I tease her through the fabric, rubbing her clit, watching her face as pleasure builds. When I slip my fingers beneath the barrier, finding her slick and ready, she bites her lip to stifle a moan.

“You’re soaked,” I murmur, circling her entrance with my thumb while my fingers find the sensitive bundle of nerves above. “Is this for me,zaychik?”

The endearment slips out unbidden—a pet name I haven’t used since childhood. Before I can regret it, she nods, eyes half-closed with pleasure.

“Yes,” she admits, the confession dragged from her. “Only you.”

Something fierce and possessive claws through my chest at her words. I push her underwear aside, positioning her over me. The head of my cock slides through her wetness, coating my shaft, slick and sweet. When I press against the mouth of her pussy, her eyes lock with mine—no fear, only anticipation tinged with challenge.

“Take what you want,” I tell her, gripping her hips but leaving the final movement to her.

She sinks down slowly, taking me inch by inch, her inner walls stretching around me. The sensation threatens to overwhelm—tight heat enveloping me completely. Her fingers dig into my shoulders, her breath coming in shallow pants. When I’m fully seated inside her, she stops, her eyes squeezed shut as she soaks in the sensation.

“Move,” I command softly, my voice rumbling from deep in my chest.

She begins to rock against me, setting a rhythm that starts slow and deliberate. I let her control the pace for now, enjoying the sight of her taking her pleasure from my body. Her head tips back, exposing the long line of her throat. I lean forward, pressing open-mouthed kisses to the delicate skin, tasting salt and sweet-scented woman.

“Faster,” I urge, hands guiding her hips to a more demanding tempo.

She obeys, her movements growing more urgent. The living room fills with the sound of our breathing, the subtle creak of the sofa beneath us. I’m acutely aware that anyone could walk in and find us like this. I don’t give a shit. Let them see. Let them know who she belongs to.

Who she belongs to?

What the fuck are you thinking, mudak?

That thought is occupying far too much space in my brain.

“Tell me how it feels,” I demand, needing to hear her voice, needing confirmation that she feels this too—this consuming fire between us.

“Full,” she gasps, grinding down harder. “So deep… I can hardly breathe.”

My control shatters at her words. I thrust up to meet her movements, driving deeper into her. One hand slides to her lower back, supporting her as our pace grows frantic. The other moves between us, finding where we’re joined, circling the sensitive bundle of nerves that will push her over the edge.

“You’re going to come for me,” I tell her, voice rough with strain. “Right here, where anyone could see.”

Her inner muscles tighten around me at the words, her rhythm faltering. “Arkady—”

“That’s it. Say my name when you come.”

Her body tenses, trembling on the edge of release. I increase the pressure of my fingers, knowing exactly how to push her over. When her climax hits, it’s with my name on her lips, her body convulsing around mine. The sight of her—completely undone, completely vulnerable—triggers my own release. I bury myself deep inside her, emptying myself.

“Bozhe moy!” I choke out, trying to find my breath. The woman has sucked the air from my lungs.

For long moments afterward, we stay locked together, heartbeats gradually slowing. Her head rests against my shoulder, her breath warm against my neck. I stroke her back, savoring the softness of her skin, the weight of her in my arms.

Reality intrudes slowly—the house around us, the responsibilities waiting outside this room. Yet I make no move to separate us, reluctant to break whatever this is between us.

“We should move,” she says eventually, voice muffled against my skin. “Before someone comes in.”

“Let them,” I repeat, unconcerned.

She lifts her head, studying my face with those perceptive eyes. “What is this, Arkady? What are we doing?”