Mia
I surface from sleep steadily. Thinking about how my dream feels so real. It’s warm and dark and slow, like being pulled up through deep water, and for a few seconds I don't know where I am.
Then I remember.
His bed. That's where I am. His sheets, his pillows, his room. The details arrive in fragments. The weight of a heavy duvet. A mattress that perfectly supports my weight like it was made especially for me. The faint smell of him on the pillow beneath my cheek.
I fell asleep. Properly, heavily, the kind of sleep where your body just stops negotiating and goes.
He carried me up here from the library and I remember my face against his neck and his arms solid beneath me and then nothing.
Just dark. Deep, blank, dreamless dark, which after the previous night feels like a miracle.
But something wakes me.
A touch. Low. The press of warm lips against my hip bone.
My brain takes a second to assemble it. The duvet has been moved down. The air is cool on my skin. And there's a mouth on me. On my hip, then lower, along the crease where my thigh meets my body, and the recognition hits me all at once.
Iosif.
My breath catches. My fingers curl into the sheet.
He knows I'm awake. He must know, because he pauses for just a beat. His thumb traces a slow line across my hip.
"Mia." His voice is low and rough with sleep. "If you want me to stop—"
"No." The word is out before I've fully thought it. My voice sounds like someone else's. Hoarse. Thick. "Don't stop."
His mouth returns to my skin. Sucking one swollen lip into his mouth, then the other. My stomach contracts. My legs part further without my deciding to, my body making choices before my brain has finished waking up.
He settles between my thighs. I feel the width of his shoulders press them apart. His hands slide beneath me, cupping my ass, tilting my hips up, and the possessiveness of the grip makes something hot twist in my belly.
Then his tongue is on me and I stop thinking in full sentences.
He's slower than before. In the library it was focused and deliberate. A man with a purpose. This is different. This is languid. Exploratory. Like he's half asleep himself and doing this because he wants to, not because he's working toward anything, just tasting me because I'm here and he can.
His tongue moves in a lazy, flat stroke and my hips jolt.
"Easy," he murmurs against me, and I feel the word vibrate through my whole body.
I make a sound. I don't know what to call it. Something between a moan and a whimper, and if I had any pride left, I'd be embarrassed, but I used up my entire supply of pride in the library when I rode a man I'd known for twenty-four hours in his reading chair.
He works me slowly. Patiently. His tongue tracing patterns I can't predict, long slow strokes that end with a flick that makes my thighs shake, and every time I get close to something he backs off. Just slightly. Just enough that I feel the edge recede.
"Iosif—" My hand finds his hair. "Please."
He lifts his head. I can barely see him in the dark, just the shape of him between my legs, massive, the faint gleam of his eyes.
"How sore are you?"
The question cuts through the haze. Direct and practical. The same tone he uses for everything, are you hurt, what do you need, tell me the facts, except he's asking it from between my thighs at four in the morning.
I take stock. There's a tenderness. An ache. Not sharp. Not the sting from before. More like a bruise. The kind that reminds you something happened without quite hurting.
"A little," I say. Honest, because he told me to be honest, and because I think he'd know if I lied.
"A little isn't no."
"A little isn't stop, either."
A pause. I feel his breath against me, warm and unsteady. Then he presses his mouth to the inside of my thigh. A kiss. Gentle. The kind that asks a question.
"I want you," I say. "I want you to—" I hesitate. Saying it out loud in the dark to a man whose face I can barely see feels like stepping off something high. "I want you to take control. I want to feel you lose control with me."
The silence that follows is thick.
Then he moves. Fast. Faster than I expect from someone that large.
He's over me in one motion, his forearms braced on either side of my head, his body covering mine completely.
The weight of him, I feel it everywhere and it should feel like being trapped but it doesn't. It feels like being held down by something safe.
His mouth finds mine. I taste myself on his lips and my stomach flips as he kisses me deeply, thoroughly, with a kind of slow possession that makes my toes curl against the sheets.
He pulls back. I can feel him hard against my thigh. Hot and insistent.
"If it hurts," he says, "you tell me. Immediately. Not after. Not through it. The second it hurts."
"Yes."
"Promise me."
"I promise."
He lifts himself back onto his haunches, pulling the duvet up and away with him as he flicks on the lamp on the bedside table. Then he takes each of my knees in each of his hands and pulls them up and back until I’m completely spread in front of him.
He groans, then lowers his mouth, licking and sucking and teasing me, working me to the edge again before pulling away from me.
Then he presses the head of his cock against my entrance, smooths it up and down before sliding it in. Then he goes back to holding my knees apart.
“You’re perfect, printsessa,” he says, the name taking me back to last night. How we both lost ourselves in each other.
He pulls me closer to him by my hips, sliding into me until he bottoms out with a grunt.
“Now I can see how well your pussy takes me, how deep you take me.” He slides us both faster, his hips moving in time with how he pushes and pulls me.
“Printsessa, you look so beautiful with your tits bouncing like that.” His words have turned breathy, his eyes flicking between my face, my breasts and my pussy, which I can only imagine looks stretched out and desperate right now.
He groans, long and hard, “fuck, you’re already trying to milk me,” he says and I think I understand what he means.
The closer I get to falling apart, the more I can feel myself tighten around him, clamping onto him with each of his thrusts.
He lifts his hand to his mouth, licking his index and middle finger, which he then brings down to my clit and rubs in time with his thrusts.
“Fall apart on my cock, Printsessa,” he grunts. “Show me who owns this perfect pussy.”
Between the pressure building from the fullness of him inside me, his fingers against my clit and his words, I shatter.
Each pulse of pleasure rolls through me, making my body arch and bow with each wave.
His words of praise reach me through my screams. Spurring me on as I come apart on him.
“I want to come all over this pussy,” he says from between gritted teeth while I’m trying to steady myself between the aftershocks of the orgasm. “I want to cover you in my cum and make you wear it all day.”
He stills, and I think this is it, but then I realize he is just pulling back his control.
“Not yet,” he says, stroking his hands up my body, squeezing my breasts. “Not yet.”
He pulls out slowly and rolls me onto my stomach, spreading my legs once again and tapping my ass lightly. “Perfect,” he mumbles. Then his body is over mine and he is sliding inside me once again, impossibly deeper.
“I will claim your pussy properly, but right now my balls are so full for you, that I need to fill you properly. Deeply. So fucking full that you drip with me for days.”
I find myself shaking beneath him, wildly full of him as he lies above me with one arm braced beside me, his other hand squeezing my ass as he thrusts quicker and quicker.
"There," I manage, my face pressed against the pillows. "Right there, don't—"
I clench around him as the pressure builds and breaks again.
His groans turn louder, longer, then his thrusts become erratic as his cock throbs hard inside me, emptying himself deeply, just like he said.
He lies above me until he softens and slips from me, then rolls to the side and pulls me against his chest.
"You good?" he asks.
"God, yes."
The room is very still in the golden light of the lamp. His arm settles over me. Heavy. Warm. His hand cupping my mound like he owns it now. I can feel his heart hammering against my back. My own is doing the same.
I'm warm. I'm safe. I'm in a bed that isn't mine with a man I've known for a day and a half, and my mind is quiet. My body is at peace.
"Go back to sleep," he murmurs. His voice is thick. Half gone already.
I close my eyes and sleep.