Page 37 of The Last Dance

“Tease,” I said, breathless.

He looked up, face unreadable. “Not a tease. I want it to last.”

I could have called bullshit, but the truth was, I wanted that, too. I wanted to stretch this out until the fear and the adrenaline burned off and there was nothing left except us, locked together, marks and all.

He let go of my wrist, taking the time to run his hands down both legs as he did. He sat back on his haunches, just looking at me. The way a man looks at something he’d die to keep.

I spread my legs for him, an invitation or a dare. “Come on, Boss. Show me who’s in charge.”

He grinned, and this time it showed teeth. His cock was already hard and flushed dark at the tip. He stroked it, slow, eyes locked on mine, and I realized with a jolt that he wasn’t trying to intimidate or impress.

He wanted me to watch.

So I did. I watched the motion of his hand, the leak of pre-cum at the head, the way he ran his thumb over it before letting go. I wanted to taste it, but I wanted him inside me more.

He reached for the nightstand, grabbed the lube, and coated his fingers. He did it clinical, no performance. He slicked two fingers, then slid them down my crack, pressing at the entrance.

He didn’t ask. He didn’t need to.

The first finger slid in easy. I was loose from anticipation and maybe the vodka from last night. He curled it, searching, and when he found the spot, I gasped, clenching around him. He added a second, then a third, opening me up with slow, steady pressure.

I wanted to tell him to hurry, but he’d already read my mind. He pulled his fingers out, rolled a condom on, and then lined up the head of his cock. He pressed in, just the tip at first, then pulled back. He did this twice, watching my face for any sign of pain.

I was impatient. I rolled my hips, trying to take more, but he held my hip in place, grinding in a little more each time. When he finally bottomed out, I was so full I could barely breathe.

“Okay?” he asked, voice cracked with effort.

“Fuck yes,” I said, and he laughed, just once, before he started to move.

He set a brutal rhythm, fucking me deep and hard, each thrust landing with enough force to push me up the mattress. I grabbed the headboard for leverage, but he pinned my hand again, fingers digging in just shy of breaking skin.

Every thrust lit up my whole body, the pleasure spiraling out from my spine to the tips of my toes. I moaned, loud, no shame at all. He didn’t try to muffle me.

If anything, he wanted to hear it.

He bent down and bit my neck, just above the collarbone, and the sharp pain pushed me over the edge. I came, hard, with his name on my lips, the sheets clenching in my fists.

He followed a second later, grunting as he buried himself to the hilt, body shaking against mine.

For a long time, neither of us moved. My heart felt like it might explode out of my chest. His was a drumline against me, every beat an echo of the night that almost erased me.

He didn’t pull out. He just held me there, breathing hard, face pressed into my shoulder like he was afraid I’d vanish the second he looked away.

I stroked his hand, the one still gripping my wrist. “You good?” I whispered.

He nodded, just once, but it felt like a promise.

He never let go.

Afterward, we lay there, breathing like we’d just outrun a fire, not caused it. For a long minute, the only sound was our blood cooling and the faint crackle of the fireplace.

Vadim slid off me, silent, condom disposed of with the same care as evidence at a murder scene. He didn’t speak, didn’t wipe away the sweat or the bite marks he’d left on my shoulder. He just hooked an arm under my ribs and dragged me back, pinning me to his chest as if my body was a life raft he’d been ordered not to abandon.

He pressed his face into the crook of my neck, the breath still harsh, the stubble burning a raw line along my jaw. His arms went around me and locked there, hands overlapping at my navel, one thumb unconsciously tracing circles against my skin. The hold was not comfortable. It was the grip of a man clutching something he knew he didn’t deserve to keep.

I waited for the muscles in his back to unclench, for his heart to fall back into a normal rhythm, but it took longer than I expected. I was aware, in a way I’d never been before, of just how close I’d come to being erased from the universe by an anonymous bullet. The knowledge sat under my skin like an unpopped blister: tender, not yet healed, but proof of survival.

I ran my hand up his forearm, feeling the shiver of tension still cording the muscle. “You’re not going to lose me,” I whispered, too quiet for the fire to hear.