Page 84 of The Pakhan’s Debt by Leona White

He kisses me hard, shoving his tongue into my mouth so I taste my own release on him. I pull him closer, wrap my legs around his waist again, drag him down. His chest presses to mine, hot skin against hot skin. I grind against the bulge in his trousers and feel how hard he is, thick and insistent. I want him inside me until the world stops.

He stands, ripping his belt open, yanking his trousers and briefs down at once. His cock springs free, flushed and ready. He climbs over me again, supports himself with one hand braced by my head, and lines up. The seconds stretch.

“Elena.” It’s a warning and a prayer.

I bite my lip, nod, and roll my hips up. “Fuck me.”

He thrusts slowly, filling me inch by inch. The stretch is deep and sweet, a sting at first, then a fullness that makes me moan low. He seats himself completely, groaning, his head dropping to my shoulder. “You feel like fire.” His breath ghosts over my ear. “Every time.”

“Move,” I demand, clawing at his biceps. “I need you to move.”

He pulls out, thrusts back in, the pace measured, mindful of my bruised ribs. He watches my face for any sign of pain. I give him none, only hunger. I roll my hips, meeting every thrust with a grind of my own, the movement rubbing my clit against his pelvic bone. Sensation sparks. I dig my heels into the mattress and ride him in reverse, forcing him deeper. His restraint wavers. He starts to thrust harder, faster. His hands grip my waist, fingers pressing into my bruised skin but not crossing into pain. I moan, louder, rawer. The rhythm pounds into me, the headboard thumping softly against the wall.

“Harder,” I whisper, voice frayed.

He groans and obeys, driving deeper, the bed creaking. Wet sounds fill the room. I don’t care if anyone outside hears. He drops his head and sucks my nipple again, biting gently, the mix of pain and pleasure making me gasp. I grab his hair, yank his head up, and bite his lower lip until I taste blood. He growls, thrusts viciously, and I scream into his mouth, the sound swallowed.

He flips me without warning, guiding me onto my side, one hand on my stomach while he lifts my leg over his hip. The position lets him slam into me from behind without crushing me. He keeps one hand on my stomach, fingers spread protectively while his hips pistons into me faster. I moan into the pillow, the angle hitting new places, the friction relentless.

“Tell me how you feel,” he grits.

“Like I could burn the estate down,” I pant.

“Good.” He bends over, kisses the back of my neck, the tenderness a contrast to the pounding. His hand slides down, finds my clit again, rubs circles that make me arch back into him. The next orgasm builds quicker, coiling tight. Heat floods me, pulse racing. He feels it, thrusts harder, fingers ruthless.

I break apart, crying out, “Maksim!” as the climax rips through me. My muscles clamp so hard around him he swears, gasps, “Elena,” and loses control. His hips jerk, and he groans against my shoulder. He thrusts through the aftershocks, slower now, milking every shiver, until he collapses behind me, chest heaving.

We lie tangled, sweat cooling on our skin. His hand stays over my stomach, thumb drawing small circles, protective and tender. He kisses my shoulder blade, mouth gentle, breathing slowing to match mine. I lace our fingers together and let the feeling sink in—my body wrecked, my heart pounding, his warmth anchoring me. I could fall asleep like this, finally.

He doesn’t move away after, and that’s what I notice first. I pull the blanket up and shift back against the bed, and he rolls onto his side beside me, bracing on one arm while his other hand stays on my thigh.

“Tell me something real,” I say, and I catch his wrist, my fingers tracing the lines there, old scars, clean and placed, nothing careless about them.

His gaze stays on mine, bare and heavy-lidded, and his arm remains across my thighs, his fingers tracing a slow circle over the blanket as he says, “My father ran the house like a command post, and my mother made it feel like a home anyway.”

“And Irina?” I say, softer, and his mouth twitches as he leans in and slides his hand under the blanket, and I place mine over it to stop him, laughing under my breath.

“Yes, there was Irina,” he says, and his fingers slide a fraction higher on my thigh.

“Tell me.”

He watches me for a second, then says, “When I was ten, my father decided swimming built discipline, so he had a guard throw me into the lake.”

I blink, then lean closer. “In winter?”

“Spring,” he says, drawing his hand back and shifting closer as he sits up beside me. “He was feeling generous.”

“What did you do?”

“I sank.”

I laugh, and he gives me a dry look as his hand passes over my shoulder.

“I had stones in my pockets,” he adds.

I nudge his shoulder. “You brought rocks to a swimming lesson?”

“I was ten.”