Chapter 17 Mara #4
I let out a yelp of surprise, but before I can draw in a breath to speak, he slides his leg smoothly between mine, pushing them apart.
His hand in my hair pushes my head down, my cheek meeting the cool, buttery-soft leather of the couch as he bends me fully over the side of it, his hand on my back moving to grip the waist of my leggings and yank them down.
“Fuck.” He pulls the leggings down to my knees, his hand cupping between my thighs.
It’s broad and firm, the heat of his palm sinking through the silk, and Ilya groans behind me.
“So wet, kotenok. You’ve soaked through your panties already.
You were wet before you even came downstairs, weren’t you? ”
I moan at the pressure of his hand, and he chuckles, pressing his fingers firmly against my folds and rubbing back and forth—just enough pressure on my clit to make me squirm, but not enough to give me any real pleasure yet.
“You got wet seeing these pretty things that I bought for you. You imagined what I did afterward, da? You pictured me in that bed, my hand around my cock, imagining you dressed in silk and lace for me.”
His fingers press harder, pushing the silk between my soaked folds and against my throbbing clit. “Good girl. You got your present, now I get my reward.”
Reward. I tense, expecting to immediately feel the broad, thick head of his cock between my legs, but to my shock, he drops to his knees behind me, letting go of my hair.
“Be a good girl, and keep your cheek to the couch,” he murmurs. “If you try to get up, I’ll stop, kotenok. And I know how badly you must want to come right now.”
I want to argue, to tell him I don’t want that at all, but the words won’t come. I feel like I can barely breathe as he pushes my thighs as far apart as they’ll go with the restriction of my leggings half on, his palms warm against my skin as he slides one hand up and pulls the panties to one side.
“Before long, I’ll have you naked, kotenok,” he murmurs. “But I want to see you come dressed in these pretty things I bought for you, first.”
His fingers hook around the edge of the panties, pulling them to one side. And a moment later, I feel his warm breath against my folds… and then his tongue.
Pleasure spears through me as he slips his tongue against me, holding my panties aside as he licks all the way up to my clit, pushing against the swollen flesh with the tip of his tongue.
It’s hot and wet and so fucking perfect, and I cry out, gripping the side of the couch as I arch back against his mouth before I can stop myself.
Ilya lets out a groan of approval, pulling back just enough to stiffen his tongue and push it inside of me. I cry out, startled, a ragged moan following as he starts to fuck me shallowly with his tongue, his other hand coming up to rub at my clit.
It’s so fucking good. I’ve never had a man eat me out like this before.
I feel dizzy with pleasure, overwhelmed by the sheer ecstasy of what he’s doing to me.
His tongue slides in and out of me in firm, relentless strokes, his fingers rolling over my clit, and I realize he’s not going to stop until I come.
This isn’t just to get me wet enough to get his cock in; I was already soaked before he even pulled my leggings down.
This is him getting off on my pleasure, wanting to make me orgasm for him.
I’ve never experienced anything like this before.
I’m on the edge… so fucking close. His tongue pushes in all the way, his lips sucking at my folds as his fingers work my clit, and my back arches, my face still pressed to the couch as I claw at the leather, the sparks of the most powerful orgasm I’ve ever had igniting.
It burns through me, an almost vicious pleasure that has my legs splayed wide, my ass arched against his face, riding his tongue shamelessly like it’s his cock, screaming my pleasure against the leather of his couch.
I buck and writhe, pulse after pulse of my climax shattering through me, and just when I think it’s over, he pulls his tongue out of me, slides it over my clit, and starts to lick again as he pushes three long, thick fingers into my pussy.
A second orgasm hits violently on the heels of the first, and my moans turn to something nearing a scream, my toes curling against the floor as he finger-fucks me through a second climax.
His fingers curl inside of me, hooking me on his hand as he licks my clit and sucks at my folds, and by the time the orgasm starts to ebb, I feel as if my muscles have gone limp, my brain a fog, my throat hoarse.
I feel him stand up slowly, bracing himself on the couch as I hear the rustle of fabric. And then I feel him… his cock, thick and blunt and… bare.
Somewhere in the fog of pleasure, I know I shouldn’t allow this. I have an IUD, but there are still plenty of reasons I shouldn’t let him fuck me raw. I’ve never let any man fuck me without a condom for the added protection.
But I can’t make myself speak. I can’t make a sound. I feel the pressure of his bare, hot flesh, sliding between my folds as he angles himself against my entrance, and I hear the low, ragged groan that comes from deep in his throat.
“Fuck, kotenok, so wet… so fucking wet for me.”
I turn my head, seeing him over my shoulder. His jaw is set as if in pain, his eyes narrow and dark, his hand clenched around his thick length. His hips tilt, and my mouth opens on a moan as I feel a man slide into me bare for the first time, see the muscles in his jaw work as he enters me.
He doesn’t ease in. His hips snap forward, and I feel him sink into me in a hot, hard rush, a sound of intense pleasure tearing from his lips as his hips meet the slender curve of my ass.
His hand is twisted in my hair, the other squeezing my hip, and he rocks into me, stretching me with how thick he is, how big.
“So fucking tight…” He groans, and then he pulls out to the tip before slamming into me again.
“Fuck… fuck…” Ilya pants behind me, setting a hard, punishing pace as he starts to fuck me in earnest. “God, you feel as fucking good as I imagined, fuck…”
My entire body tightens at the thought of him imagining this, stroking himself while picturing it, obsessing over fucking me.
His cock slams into me again and again in hard, driving strokes as his fingers curl around my hip and his hand slides lower, fingertips finding my clit.
His balls slap against my folds, a wet, rhythmic sound filling the air as he fucks me hard, making me his.
Even if I leave here, I think dimly as he fucks me, fills me, ruins me… I’ll never be the same. I’ll never forget this. Because no one has ever fucked me the way Ilya Sorokov is fucking me.
He’s relentless, taking me, proving to me what he’s said over and over again.
I’m his. This is him taking what belongs to him.
Proving he owns me, because my ass arches up to meet each punishing stroke of his cock, my body tightens with each pass of his fingers over my clit, winding up to give him another of my orgasms, to come on his cock, to soak him in my pleasure before he gives me his. Before he…
He’s going to come inside of me.
The thought terrifies me, and in the same instant, tips me over the edge.
My mouth opens on a guttural cry of pleasure as my pussy clamps down on his length, dragging over him as he slides back and then plunges into me again, and I hear a string of what sound like curses in Russian as Ilya’s hand on the back of my hair pushes my face hard against the couch.
His hips slam against mine as I come on his cock, grinding on his length as he drives into me to the hilt and I feel him throb, the hot rush of his cum filling me.
I can feel it, each hot, thick spurt as he comes inside of me in a flood, his palm cupped against my pussy as he rubs my clit feverishly through it, our climaxes intertwining as he sinks against me, still throbbing.
“Fuck, Mara—”
The sound of my name on his lips jolts through the fog of pleasure. Reality comes crashing back in.
What did I just do?
The thought feels faint at first, then crystallizes as I feel him slide out of me, his cum sliding down my thighs as I’m left hollow in the wake of his thick length filling me.
The position I’m in hits me—bent over the couch in this stranger’s penthouse, half-dressed, my swollen pussy on display for him while his cum drips out of me.
What did I just do?
I just had sex with my stalker. The man who cut off Richard Maxwell's hand. The man who beat Daniel bloody. The man who's been watching me from this apartment, learning my routines, planning to bring me here.
I killed someone tonight and then I came here and I had sex with him.
Horror floods through me, cold and sharp. I scramble away from him, grabbing at my leggings as I yank them back up, trying not to think about the wet, warm feeling of his cum between my thighs. I let him fuck me bare. I let him come inside of me. I…
I look up at his face, that gorgeous, cold, terrifying face, and I see his eyes harden as he takes in the expression on mine.
"Mara—" He reaches for me, his voice rough.
"Don't." I stumble back, pulling away from him. "Don't touch me."
“I just did far more than touch you.” A smirk curls one corner of his mouth. “Don’t play this game, kotenok. You know you’re mine. You’ve had my cock in you. You’ve come for me. You’re dripping my cum right now…”
“Shut up!” I nearly scream. “I can’t believe I… I’ve never…”
His eyes darken at that admission. “You were a virgin?”
“No!” I shriek. “But I’ve always used… always…”
His jaw tightens, and I see his cock twitch against the front of his pants, as if he’s already getting aroused again. “So have I,” he growls, taking a step forward. “I made you mine, Mara. Only you.” He narrows his eyes. “And don’t talk about other men to me. My control only stretches so far…”
“But you can talk about other women? Saying you’ve never…
before…” I squeeze my eyes shut, pressing my fingers against my temples.
This isn’t important. I shouldn’t even care about who else he’s fucked and how.
It certainly shouldn’t make me feel good that he just admitted we shared something for the first time, that he’s never been inside a woman bare before, never given her his…
What the fuck is wrong with me? Why do I suddenly feel special over something so insane. Cherished?
I’m losing my mind.
“I’m not sleeping with you,” I hiss. “Where is the guest room?”
“I will not allow?”
"Where is it?" I nearly scream the question, my sanity feeling as if it’s hanging on by a thread. "If I can’t leave, then I need my own room. I need space. I need—"
Ilya’s jaw tightens, and I think I see a flash of disappointment in his eyes. Hurt, even, which is something I wouldn’t have thought him capable of.
I don’t care.
Good. Let him be hurt. Let him feel a fraction of what I'm feeling.
He draws in a slow breath. “Follow me,” he says finally, and leads me down the hall.
I follow, keeping distance between us. He leads me to another door and opens it to reveal another bedroom—smaller than the master but still luxurious.
There’s a king-size bed, more expensive furniture, another wall of windows.
"There's a bathroom through there," he says, pointing. "Everything you need should be in the closet and drawers. The things I purchased for you are all in here. If you need anything else—"
"I won't." I cross my arms protectively as I move past him into the room, my teeth clenched. He stands in the doorway, looking at me. I can feel him wanting to say something, wanting to reach for me.
"Goodnight, Mara," he says finally.
I don't respond. I just stand there, hugging myself, waiting for him to leave.
He does, stepping back into the hallway. But he doesn't close the door. He just stands there, looking at me with an expression I can't read and don't want to understand.
I cross the room and close the door myself, almost slamming it in his face. My hand finds the lock and turns it, the click loud in the quiet apartment.
I’m locking him out. Locking out what just happened. Putting a physical barrier between us even though I know it's meaningless, childish, even. If he wanted to get in, he could. The lock is just a symbol, a gesture, a way of saying I don't want you here.
It’s his home, but if he won’t let me leave, then I want a place he can’t get to me.
I strip off my clothing, leaving it in a pile as I go to the bathroom to clean up for the second time tonight.
This time I get into the huge shower, letting the irritatingly perfect water pressure crash down on me as I scrub myself over and over in an attempt to get him off of me.
I wash his cum from between my thighs, and I stifle a moan as my fingers bump against my oversensitive clit.
It was so good. So fucking good. I’ve never had sex like that before, and I probably never will again. And I can’t even claim he forced me.
I had a choice. In that moment, when I grabbed him and kissed him, I had a choice. I could have walked away, demanded the guest room, locked myself in here and refused to engage.
But I didn't. I chose to kiss him. Chose to have sex with him. And now I have to live with that choice.
I stand there under the hot spray, trying to understand how everything has come apart so quickly, trying to reconcile the woman I thought I was with the woman who just killed someone and then slept with her stalker.
My life as I knew it is over. I'm in Ilya Sorokov's apartment, under his protection, bound to him by obsession and violence and my own terrible choices.
I can't take any of it back.
The black rose is still in my apartment, wilted now. I should have thrown it away when I had the chance.
But I didn't. Just like I didn't walk away from him tonight. Just like I didn't make any of the choices I should have made.
And now I'm here, in a locked room in my stalker's penthouse, trying to figure out how to survive a nightmare that’s as pleasurable as it is terrifying.