Page 127 of The Pakhan’s Debt by Leona White

I pull him up to me, kiss him hard, share the taste. “Get inside me,” I demand against his lips. “I need you. I need your cock, Maksim.”

He growls softly, rocks his hips so I feel the firm length straining against his trousers. He stands long enough to unbuckle, unzip, and slide them down with boxer briefs. His cock springs out, thick, swollen, flushed dark at the tip. A bead of precum gleams, and I reach to smear it with my thumb, loving the way his breath hitches. I stroke him once, slow, watching his abs twitch. “So hard,” I whisper.

“For you.” His voice is rough. “Only ever for you.”

He kneels on the bed, pressing his forehead to mine for a second, breathing me in. Then he settles between my thighs, guiding his cock to my entrance, pausing to brush his head against my slick folds. “Tell me you want it.”

“I want it,” I gasp, hips rolling. “Give it to me.”

He eases in, the stretch deep and filling, pulling a low moan from both of us. “Fuck,” he groans, eyes squeezing shut as he sinks halfway, then backs out a fraction, then pushes deeper. I clutch his shoulders, nails digging, loving the way his muscles flex under my touch. “So tight, Elena. So perfect.”

I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him closer, demanding more. “Fill me up,” I pant.

His eyes snap open, dark and feral. “Da,” he snarls, pulling out and slamming in, seating himself fully with a wet slap. The pleasure punches through me, sharp and sweet. “You feel that? My cock deep inside my wife, right where it belongs.”

“Yes,” I hiss. “Right there.”

He rocks us, mindful of my stomach, bracing his hands beside my head to keep his weight off me. His thrusts are powerful yet controlled, grinding against my clit with every push, dragging against my inner walls until I feel stretched to the edge. Sweat beads on his temples even as he keeps watching my face, cataloging every gasp. He kisses me, moaning into my mouth, then licks down my throat, nips my collarbone, pins me with his body while he fucks me deeper.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he murmurs.

“Never too much,” I answer quickly, kissing him back. “More, Maksim. Fuck me harder.”

He complies, pace intensifying, driving faster. The bed creaks, the headboard thumps a slow rhythm against the wall, and I love it—the sound of our love banging against old wood while the rest of the mansion pretends not to hear.

I whimper, head tipping back as he pistons into me. His pelvis grinds against my clit, relentless, making my vision blur. He slips a hand between us and presses his thumb over that slick bundle of nerves, rubbing tight circles in sync with his thrusts.

“Come for me again,” he orders, voice low and commanding. “Milk my cock.”

That does it. Heat explodes in my belly, radiating outward, and I cry out, “Maksim!” as a second orgasm rips through me. My walls clench around him, squeezing, milking, and he curses in Russian, hips stuttering.

I grip his shoulders, legs locked around his waist, riding the tremors. He keeps thrusting, chasing his own release, thumb still circling my clit until I whimper from overstimulation. He relents, slides that hand up to cradle my cheek, kissing me while he slams deep again, again, deeper, lost. His breathing fractures. “I’m close.”

“Come inside me,” I whisper. “Give me everything, Maksim.”

His control snaps. He buries himself to the hilt and holds, shuddering, cock pulsing. “Elena—ahh—” He groans loudly, hot spurts flooding me, filling every inch. I feel the warmth bloom, spilling deep, and I moan at the sensation, loving that no barrier exists between us.

He keeps thrusting shallowly, riding the aftershocks, murmuring words of devotion against my ear. Finally, he slows, rests his forehead against mine, breath ragged. “Perfect.”

We stay entwined, bodies slick with sweat, hearts thudding. He kisses me gently, then nuzzles my cheek, hand sliding back to rest over my stomach. “You good, Moya Zhena?”

“Better than good,” I answer, stroking his short hair, feeling the ache between my thighs and smiling anyway. “I’m blissed out.”

He chuckles softly, though it turns into a wince as his ribs remind him they exist. “Worth every bruise,” he mutters, easing to the side carefully, keeping himself inside for a moment longer before slipping out. I feel his cum dribble out, warm and messy, and the sensation makes me hum contentedly.

He grabs a silk throw, wipes me gently, reverently, murmuring apologies when I flinch from the sensitivity. I tug him back up and tuck myself against his chest, leg slung over his hip.

He kisses my forehead, whispering promises and filthy plans for later, fingers dancing over the ring on my hand. Outside, the fire crackles, the world spins, alliances shift, but in this bed, in this moment, the only truth that matters is his heartbeat under my ear and the soft, satisfied aftermath still pulsing between my thighs.

“This is our house,” he murmurs. “Our home.”

We drift in that lazy, blissful quiet

Tonight, we built a throne out of chaos and crowned it with pleasure. Tonight, I became a wife. And tomorrow, if the world dares to knock again, we’ll answer as lovers first, rulers second, married in blood and sweat and the sweetest, dirtiest love I’ve ever known.

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EPILOGUE