Chapter 21 Sima
SIMA
This is such a bad idea.
His hands are at my waist, then at my back. Soon, I’m flush against him until there is no space left. I feel the weight of his chest pressing into me, the steadiness of his breath turning unsteady with mine.
We stumble toward the sink counter, still kissing. Like we’ve both been starving for it all this time.
Maybe we have.
He tugs at my blouse and pops the buttons one by one until the fabric slips from my shoulders.
I should stop him, say something, but the words won’t come. My skin burns under his touch. Every move he makes is careful but firm, like he’s claiming what he already knows is his.
When his hand slides across my belly, I tense.
Heat shoots to my face. I grab his wrist. “Don’t look,” I whisper.
His brow furrows. “Why not?”
“I’m so big now,” I whisper. “My skin’s stretched. I have marks everywhere. I’m not the same as before.”
His eyes move over me, then lock back on mine. He runs his hands over my belly, slow and deliberate. His fingers trace the stretch marks as if they are something to be admired, not hidden.
He watches me with that dark hunger in his eyes. His chest rises harder with each breath. “You’re always beautiful to me,” he says. “Every inch.”
The shame I felt a moment ago eases, replaced by heat that spreads low in my stomach.
I still feel nervous, aware of every change in my body, but his blunt certainty shakes me. For the first time in months, I feel wanted without conditions.
His hands slide over my sides, down the curve of my stomach, up to my breasts. He touches me like he means it, like nothing about me has changed for the worse.
I can’t help it—I lean into his touch, craving more. My bra is gone in seconds, tossed aside. His mouth finds the top of my breast, warm and insistent. My hands dig into his shoulders, holding on as my knees weaken.
The steam from the shower thickens the air around us. My back presses into the counter, cool against the heat of my skin. He kisses me again, harder this time.
My body responds to him without thought, every nerve alive under his palms.
I want more. I want all of him. And I can see in his eyes that he wants the same. My doubts and fears are still there, but they drown under the weight of how much I need him right now.
Steam fogs the glass and beads of water run down my skin. Petyr’s hands roam over me, hot and insistent, and I can’t think straight.
Every stroke of his palms over my shoulders, down my arms, over the swell of my breasts overwhelms me. I gasp at the feel of him, my body already trembling.
I’ve missed this—missed him—more than I want to admit. The ache of wanting him again mixes with the relief of finally feeling his touch.
I reach for him. I slide soap over the planes of his chest, across his hard stomach, over the scarred lines of his hips. His skin is firm beneath my hands. Every place I touch makes me ache more.
There’s no rush, though. Only the weight of each second as we take each other in again for the first time in months.
When his fingers trace down my spine, I shiver. He presses closer, his chest solid against my back.
His mouth finds my neck. I lean forward into the spray and into his touch, breathless. As his hands move across me, I can’t think about anything else.
He runs his palms over my shoulders, down my arms, then over my breasts. I gasp at the heat of his touch. My body trembles.
He drops to his knees and my breath stutters at the sight. His hands spread my thighs apart. His mouth is on me a second later.
Pleasure rushes through me, fast and sudden. I clutch at the tiles for balance.
“Petyr—” My voice shakes. My knees threaten to give out.
He grips my hips and drags me closer. He refuses to let me escape, and God, I don’t want to. There’s nowhere I’d rather be right now than under his hands. It scares the hell out of me, but it’s the truth.
His tongue moves against my clit. It makes me go insane. He’s licking at me, sucking in that way that drives me crazy.
I can’t stop the sounds spilling from me, can’t catch my breath. There’s only him. Only this.
Us.
Then, slowly, his tongue slides lower. Right against my entrance.
I moan. “Petyr!”
He starts fucking me with his tongue. Plunges it deep inside, then drags it up to flick me again. Heat builds inside me, higher and higher, until it’s all I can do to brace myself against the tiles.
Then, suddenly, I’m coming.
My whole body seizes with release. I shake hard. My vision whites out for a second, or maybe it’s ten. I can’t tell. The pleasure is too much.
I’m still shaking when Petyr rises in one motion and swiftly pulls me forward. I catch a glimpse of his cock, hard and jutting against his abs. My fingers itch to reach out, give him the same pleasure he just gave me.
But before I can touch it, he turns me around and presses me against the wall.
My palms press flat to the tile. The water beats down on me. His chest leans into my back, and I realize what’s about to happen seconds before it does.
“Fuck,” he mutters in my ear. His hand locks on my hip. “You’re going to fucking kill me, lisichka.”
Then he pushes inside me in a single thrust.
I can’t think—it’s too much. He holds me there, his body pressed to mine, and I feel like I’m going to burst.
One hand slides up to cup my breasts. His thumbs circle and tease my nipples, tender and sensitive from my pregnancy.
His thrusts are slow at first, deep, steady. He forces me to feel every inch of him.
Then his pace quickens. Harder, faster, until I’m moaning with every thrust.
Someone will hear. It’s such a vague thought, gone in an instant, and suddenly, I don’t care anymore. I just want Petyr to hear me.
“Blyat’,” he groans. “Just like that, little fox. Let me hear your sweet voice.”
My moans echo off the tiles. My body arches back into him. I’m so hungry for this—for more of him inside me.
His hand moves down over my belly and between my legs. His fingers rub me rough and urgent, matching his rhythm.
My head is spinning. The pleasure builds, sharp and hot. My body is clenching tight around him, desperate for release.
“Petyr—!”
His name breaks as another orgasm rips through me.
My legs shake. My palms slip against the tile. I’m feeling so much, but Petyr hasn’t come yet, and I want that. I want to feel him spill inside me with an urgency that scares me.
He doesn’t stop fucking me. He drives into me harder, curses into my ear in Russian while he spears me open.
I’m still pulsing when he stiffens behind me.
He thrusts deep one last time. His grip is hard enough to bruise, but I can’t pretend I don’t love it. Everything he’s doing to me—I want it so bad it hurts.
With a guttural curse, he spills inside me.
The spray pounds down on us. Our breaths turn ragged. He stays pressed to my back until my knees steady.
I close my eyes and breathe hard.
This was a mistake. I know it the same way I know he’ll hurt me again. Nothing between us is fixed.
But the way his body feels pressed to mine, the way he fills me just right—I can’t walk away from it. It feels too good.
And as much as I want to tell myself this is the last time, deep down I already know the truth.
I won’t be able to give this up again.