30. Chapter 30
30
Bella
“ S uck me hard, krasavitsa .”
That low, possessive growl? It vibrates straight through my bones.
My red dress is a wreck, and I’m bent over Konstantin like I’ve lost my damn mind. His cock’s in my mouth—hot, thick, way too big—and I’m licking him, sloppy, desperate, my tongue swirling like he’s the last popsicle on earth. Saliva and precum drip down my chin, making him slick, and I’m trying so hard, but God, I can’t take all of him, gagging a little, my throat tight.
I’ve never done this raw, but his growls, deep and wrecked like I’m nailing it, make my pussy throb.
“Deeper, krasavitsa ,” he rasps, voice a dirty demand. “Make it wet.” His hand tightens in my hair, tugging hard enough to spark heat between my thighs and fuck , my pussy’s throbbing, soaking the seat under me. I whimper, lips stretching, pushing down further, my tongue flicking wildly over his tip, savoring the salt, the pulse.
His growl shifts, sharper, and he yanks me up, my lips popping off him, spit trailing like a guilty secret.
“Enough,” he says, voice low, lethal, and God, his eyes are black, promising trouble. He hits a button, and the passenger seat reclines—way back, nearly flat, like a damn bed, the Cullinan’s stupid-huge interior swallowing us whole. I’m sprawled, dress tangled, legs spread, and he’s over me, one hand pinning my wrist.
“You don’t get it yet,” he says. “You beg, Bella, like I told you.” His free hand tugs my dress down, slow, exposing my tits, nipples hard in the cool air. He pinches one deliberately, so slow it’s torture, rolling it between his fingers, and I gasp, hips bucking, a sharp ache blooming deep. Then he flicks it, fast, sharp, a sting that makes me whimper, my chest heaving.
“Please…” I mumble, voice cracking, but he shakes his head, grinning darkly.
“Not enough,” he growls, shifting to grab his cock—fuck, it’s huge, glistening from my mouth—and he drags it over my clit, slow, slick, the head nudging, teasing, not pushing inside.
My hips jerk, chasing it, but he pulls back, smirking, controlling every inch.
“Tell me how bad you want it,” he says, rubbing again, a lazy stroke, and I’m soaked, seeping onto him, my folds burning for more.
“Konstantin…” I whine, voice small, but he’s relentless, teasing my other nipple now—a slow twist, then a quick tug, my back arching, desperate.
He slides his cock faster, a quick flick against my clit, and God, the wet sounds—sloppy, loud—fill the Cullinan, my slickness coating him, and I’m mortified, aching, craving every inch.
“Look at you, dripping for my cock.” He is panting, and his groan—low, strained—betrays how hard he’s holding back. “You want it inside, don’t you? Say it filthier.”
My breath catches, Shy Bella screaming “no way,” but my body betrays me, hips grinding air, chasing that slick heat. He slows again, a torturous drag, the head circling my clit, and I’m trembling, a needy mess, my folds swollen, begging without words.
“P— Please…” I stammer, voice cracking, but he grips my wrist harder, pinning it to the seat. Fuck, it hurts, a sharp bite that melts into want, his rules slamming back: “You beg, krasavitsa.”
His mouth drops to my nipple, sucking hard, teeth grazing, a slow pull that sparks fire down my spine, then a fast flick of his tongue, and I cry out, chest heaving, pain and pleasure twisting tight.
“Not good enough,” he growls against my skin before popping off, his cock nudging my clit again, relentless, wet smacks echoing, and shit, I’m unraveling. His groans—“Fuck, you’re killing me”—make me crave him more, knowing he’s fighting it too.
“Konstantin, please,” I gasp, voice hoarse, “I need your cock, please.”
He shifts, hooking my legs over his thighs, lifting my hips just enough—my ass hovers off the seat, bare, exposed—and fuck , he slaps it, light, stinging, and I yelp, heat blooming where his hand lands, my walls clenching, empty, desperate.
“Filthier,” he demands, sliding slowly now, teasing my entrance, just the tip brushing, still not pushing, and I’m shaking, tears pricking—God, I’m breaking.
“Please, fuck me,” I sob, raw, no shame, “hard, I want you to fuck me hard.” My voice cracks, real, pleading, and he groans, deep, feral, his cock twitching against me, but still he holds back, pinning my wrist so tight my fingers go numb. His eyes seem almost black, owning me.
“Better,” he mutters, but still no mercy, his mouth back on my nipple, sucking slower, a deliberate pull, teeth nipping sharp, and I’m moaning, hips bucking, the wet slide of his cock—fast, then slow—driving me insane, every nerve screaming.
I’m soaked, dripping down my thighs, the leather slick under me, and his control, his rules— “I decide when you break” —are killing me, pain and pleasure knotting so tight I can’t breathe.
“Please, Konstantin, I’m begging,” I whimper, voice wrecked, and he groans again, louder, fighting his own edge, but he’s stone, denying us both, making me his.
He leans back, seat still flat, and pulls me over him, straddling, my knees sinking into the leather.
“Grind,” he orders, voice cutting, and I do, sliding my wetness along his shaft; no penetration, just slick heat, his cock hard against me. My hips roll, frantic, and shit, it’s intense, his hands gripping my ass, not guiding, just holding, thumbs digging in, massaging slow circles. I’m panting, tits bouncing.
“Please, I need…” I start, stuttering, but he slaps my ass—light, sharp—and I yelp, heat spiking.
The Cullinan’s engine hums low, a steady rumble under us, leather creaking as my knees dig deeper, straddling him, my wetness slick on his cock. His hands clamp my hips, fingers bruising, and fuck, I feel it—his shaft, hard, thick, sliding against me, the rough weave of his pants grazing my bare skin with every roll of my hips.
His chest heaves, a rock wall of muscle straining his shirt, breath jagged, hot against my neck, and his hair’s a mess—thick strands wild, sticking to his brow. Mine’s no better, tangled, falling over my face, my red dress a joke, hiked to my waist, tits spilling out, swaying as I grind, frantic, desperate.
“Keep moving,” he grunts, voice raw, and I do, hips circling, feeling every inch of him—not inside, not yet, just pressing, teasing, driving me wild. The friction’s insane, his cock’s heat burning me up, and I’m moaning, soft, then louder, my nails digging into his shoulders.
He’s fighting it—his grip tightens, a low groan escaping, and God, that sound makes me bolder, hungrier. I’m his, lost in this leather cage, and he’s breaking me open, but shit, I’m scared—scared I’m falling, for real, contract or not.
“Krasavitsa…”
Then—FUUUUCK—his cock slides in, sudden, deep, splitting me, and I scream, the stretch overwhelming, raw after all our holding back. The sensation’s electric, his zipper scraping my thighs, his shaft buried, filling me so full I can’t think.
“Konstantin,” I gasp, voice choked, and he grunts, rough, no words, just a primal sound, his hips jerking up once, hard.
My walls clench, greedy, and fuck, it’s too much, the intensity doubled by our wait, every nerve alive, screaming. My tits bounce, free, brushing his chest, and I’m a mess, but he’s all I see, his dark eyes owning me.
“Move,” he growls, hands gripping my hips, rocking me, slow at first, guiding my rhythm. I follow, hips rolling, moaning—loud—feeling him deep, so deep, the drag of his cock sparking fire in my core.
My head falls back, and I’m shuddering, every thrust a pulse, his chest heaving harder, sweat on his brow.
“Fuck, Bella,” he mutters, voice thick, and I’m keening, matching his pace, our bodies locked, slick, desperate. My moans turn frantic, climbing, and I’m close, too close, my walls tightening, ready to snap.
He stops— fuck —hips still, hands iron on my hips, and I whimper, frustrated, teetering.
“Not yet,” he snarls, eyes blazing, and God, his control’s killing me. “Ask me,” he demands, voice cutting, and I’m shaking, needy, no pride left.
“Please, Konstantin,” I sob, voice cracking, “let me come, I’m begging.” My hips twitch, useless, and he watches, granite, his cock still deep, pulsing, torturing me.
“Good girl,” he rasps, and fuck, that hits—hard—his hands loosen, rocking me again, faster, letting me chase it. I’m moaning, wild, and it builds—fast, unstoppable—my body seizing, shattering, a scream tearing out as I come, intense, waves crashing, clenching him so tight I’m dizzy. My legs shake, collapsing, but he holds me, strong, his grip bruising but steady, and I’m gasping, lost, his “good girl” echoing, making my heart twist— he’s mine, but am I his?
He’s still holding back—fuck, I feel it—his cock rigid, hips tense, breath a hiss through gritted teeth, fighting his own edge. I want him to break, too; I need it. I move, bold, shifting my legs up, squatting over him, one hand slamming the car’s ceiling for balance, the leather roof cool under my palm.
The position’s tight, my thighs burning, but God, it squeezes his cock hard. My walls are gripping, and my clit’s bare, exposed, rubbing his base every time I drop.
“ Suka ,” he curses, and his fingers find my clit—fast, relentless, circling so quick I’m gasping, nerves on fire.
“Konstantin!” I cry, moving faster, up and down, deep, so deep, the squeeze insane, his cock hitting spots that make me see stars. He’s groaning, loud, chest heaving, and he’s close—I feel it, his grip tightening, fingers bruising my hips again.
“Come with me,” I beg, and his fingers speed up, clit screaming, and it’s happening—another wave, harder, ripping through me, my scream choking as I come again, clenching him, soaking us both.
He snaps—“Fuck!”—thrusting up, once, twice, spilling inside, hot, raw, his groan guttural, shaking the air. I collapse, trembling, his arms catching me, gentle now, pulling me to his heaving chest, our breaths ragged. His lips find my temple, a soft brush that doesn’t match the way he just ruined me. Too tender. Too real.
God, I want to stay here, wrapped in him, even if it’s reckless.
But then— fuck —he stiffens, breath catching, like he’s caught himself.
I feel it. The shift. The moment softness becomes threat.
He freezes underneath me like he’s touched something sharp. One second ago, I was safe in his arms. Now he’s a rock.
“Get off,” he says.
It’s not loud. It’s not cruel.
But it’s ice.
Before I can even respond, he lifts me—not rough, but cold, like peeling away a mistake.
He reaches for the glove-box, grabs a box of tissues, and thrusts them at me without looking.
“Clean yourself up,” he says.
And I do. Quiet. Obedient. Pretending it doesn’t sting like hell.
Because whatever just cracked open between us?
He slammed it shut.
Hard.