Page 126 of The Pakhan’s Debt by Leona White

“Maksim,” I whisper, and he’s on me before the second syllable ends.

He strips his jacket off, flings it somewhere, loosens the top buttons of his shirt with one hand while the other drags me close. He kisses me like we didn’t just spend an hour being the rational heads of a fragile kingdom, like we’ve been starving in separate cells and finally earned a reunion. His mouth takes. Mine offers. Heat arcs through us until I’m pressing into him, willing to bruise on his ribs if it keeps him anchored to me.

“Still want me to be unreasonable?” he murmurs against my lips.

“Always,” I say, and it’s a vow as sure as the one the registrar heard.

He lifts me without a groan, despite the injury, though strain darkens his face. I cling, thighs hugging his waist, hands buried in his hair, feeling the low rumble that escapes him when he carries me into the adjoining bedroom we insisted on emptying for the night. He lays me across the foot of the bed, keeps one palm firm on my stomach for a second, honoring the swell there before he drags his thumb down the center seam of my corseted bodice.

The respect in that touch wrecks me more than any rough grab could.

“You sure?” he asks, voice raw, eyes burning.

“I married you so I could spend nights exactly like this.” My hand slides up, caresses the side of his face, fingers flicking over the faint stubble. “I’m yours. Come claim it.”

His exhale hitches. “Da, Moya Zhena.” Then he kisses the base of my throat, nipping lightly where the pulse beats. Each drag of his mouth trails a possessive little shock. He licks the hinge of my jaw, bites the top of my shoulder gently, murmurs words in Russian. I catch enough to know he’s praising me, swearing to guard me, promising I’ll have every part of him. The sounds blend with the crackle from the fire in the hearth.

He starts on the buttons down the back of my gown. I half expect some assistant to knock and offer help because apparently that’s what they do for brides, but that’s the last thing I want. I want Maksim’s fingers fumbling just a little, his breath whispering across my nape, his knuckles grazing my spine as he frees me inch by inch. He mutters something about hell and complicated closures, and it makes me laugh softly.

Finally, the bodice loosens and he peels it forward, helping me ease out of the structure. He watches the fabric fall away until I’m sitting on the bed with the gown pooled around me, the lace slipped to my waist, my breasts swelling over the top of a delicate silk chemise. His eyes darken, and he swallows slowly, like he’s aware he’s looking at something he never gets to take for granted.

“Look at you,” he says roughly. “Elena, Moya Boginya.”

My cheeks heat. “Take off your shirt. I want you naked when you say things like that.”

He smirks. “Ordering me already?” But he doesn’t hesitate. He shrugs the shirt off carefully, mindful of his ribs, revealing the bandage secured along his left side. He stands there, chest scarred and powerful, muscles cut from years of violence, wedding band glinting on his right hand. I stare openly, tracing the line of his collarbone, the smattering of old wounds, the ink circling his shoulder.

He sinks to his knees in front of me. “Feet, Princess.” The word curls heat between my thighs. He slides off my shoes, kissing the inside of each ankle, humming approval when I wiggle my toes against his cheek. Then he lifts my dress up and over, careful not to jostle me, placing the expensive fabric on the chair as though it still matters. Pure desire, though, drives every next motion.

He tugs the chemise over my head, leaving me in matching silk panties, the sheer panels framing my hips and the swell of pregnancy beneath my navel. He sits back on his heels and looks at me like I’m a miracle he intends to worship.

I open my thighs, invite him closer. “Kiss me.”

He obeys, mouth trailing between my breasts, tongue circling my left nipple before he draws it into his heat. “Mmm,” I gasp, arching, fingers tangling in his dark hair. He sucks slowly, purposefully, the rasp of his stubble abrading my skin, sending sparks to all the places that ache. I feel the twitch of my womb, the soft weight of our child pressing upward.

Maksim hums approval and slides one hand over the curve of my stomach, broad palm splayed protectively while the other cups my breast and thumbs the peaked tip. Every sensation intensifies—his touch, his scent, the rumble of contentment in his throat. He moves to the other breast, lavishing equal attention until they’re flushed, wet, sensitive.

“Beautiful,” he growls. “Strong. Mine.”

“Yours,” I whisper, breathless. “Always yours.”

He draws back, eyes hooded, lips parted, chin slick with me. Then he hooks his thumbs under the waistband of my panties and pulls them down, slow enough to make me whimper, revealing the dark patch of hair, the needy gloss between my thighs. He kisses the inside of my knee, trails his mouth down, and when he breathes directly against my swollen lips, I clutch the sheets in both fists.

“Let me taste you,” he says, voice vibrating against my skin. “Let me have what’s mine.”

“Yes,” I breathe, hips lifting involuntarily.

He parts me with his thumbs and licks a broad, deliberate stripe from bottom to top. “Ahh—” The sound rips out of me, somewhere between a moan and a plea. He laps again, slower, savoring, his tongue pushing into me just enough to make my muscles clench. He groans into my cunt, devouring like a man who came home starving.

He sucks my clit, circling it with the tip of his tongue, then closing his lips and pulsing with soft pressure until my thighs tremble. I grab at his hair, guiding him closer, muttering, “Yes, yes, God, yes,” as he slurps, flicks, teases, building layers of heat that coil inside me. He pushes one thick finger inside, careful yet possessive, curling it toward the tender spot, and the stretch makes my head fall back.

He adds a second finger, slow, mindful of the subtle changes in me, and pumps steadily.

“Oh, baby, I’m gonna—” My thighs clamp around his head. He grunts approvingly and keeps eating me, sucking my clit harder, fucking me with his fingers faster, hitting the spot that makes white fire streak behind my eyes. The orgasm ripples out, sharp and deep, making me cry out.

“Maksim!” I shudder, pulsing around his fingers, flood his tongue with more of me. He drinks it down, groaning like he’s the one relieved, and only withdraws when the aftershocks ease.

He looks up, mouth wet with my slick, eyes molten. “That’s my good girl,” he says, voice dark and heavy.