Katerina #3
I gasp and wrap my legs around his waist on instinct. He carries me down the hall like this, kissing me every other step, one hand under my ass, the other braced at my back. By the time he gets me to the bedroom and lays me on the bed, I’m so worked up I could cry from it.
The room is bare like the rest of the apartment. Dark linen, low lights, no decoration that matters. The kind of room built for sleep and secrets.
Roman stands at the foot of the bed and strips off his tie first, then his shirt, and I hate the sharp little sound I make at the sight of him.
He’s bigger than I remember.
Or maybe memory just failed to do him justice. Broad shoulders. Hard stomach. Scars I don’t remember or didn’t know how to read then. His body doesn’t look polished. It looks used. Dangerous. Real.
He watches me watching him. “Still want to leave?”
I should say yes.
Instead, I push my dress up over my thighs and spread my legs.
That answer is enough.
He’s on me again in seconds, dragging the dress higher, kissing me until I can’t keep track of whose breath is whose. His hand closes around one breast through the fabric, and then he pulls the dress down, drags my bra with it, and takes my nipple into his mouth.
I cry out.
He sucks hard, tongue rough and clever, and my hips jerk up into him. He switches sides, one hand holding my breast, the other already sliding down between us.
I’m so wet for him that it’s almost humiliating.
He seems to enjoy that. His fingers find me and stroke once, twice, just enough to make me shudder and beg without meaning to.
“Please.”
“For what?”
“You know what.”
“Say it.”
I glare at him through half-closed eyes. “You’re the worst man alive.”
“Probably.” He kisses my throat. “Ask nicely.”
I hate him enough to obey. “Touch me.”
He slips two fingers inside me.
I arch so hard the bed creaks.
He smiles against my skin and starts moving them slowly, deep enough to make my whole body tighten around the rhythm. He curls them once and I nearly climb out of my own skin.
“There,” he says softly.
I can’t answer. I can barely breathe.
His mouth goes back to my breasts while his fingers keep working me open, patient and devastating, building me slowly this time instead of tearing through me like he did on the piano. He knows exactly what he’s doing. Exactly how much to give, when to pull back, when to press harder.
By the time he kisses his way down my stomach and spreads my thighs wider with his shoulders, I’m shaking.
“Roman—”
He looks up at me from between my legs, dark eyes steady, mouth already wet.
“What?”
“Don’t make me beg again.”
He drops his mouth to me before I can say anything else.
I cry out and clutch at the sheets.
He eats me like he has all the time in the world and no intention of letting me survive it with any pride intact.
Slow at first, then harder when he feels how quickly I’m climbing.
His tongue works my clit while his fingers fill me, and every time I try to catch my breath, he gives me something else to moan for.
“Please,” I gasp again, because apparently he has reduced my vocabulary to one pathetic word.
He groans against me at that.
The vibration sends me over the edge.
I come hard, all at once, my back arching off the bed, my hands in his hair, my whole body pulsing around his fingers while he keeps licking me through it. When I finally sag back against the sheets, trembling and breathless, he rises over me and kisses me.
I taste myself on his mouth. That alone nearly starts me again.
I reach for his belt this time and he lets me. My hands shake, but I get it open. Then his trousers. Then his cock is in my hand, heavy and hot and so hard it makes my mouth water before I can stop the thought.
Roman looks down at where my hand closes around him and says, voice rougher than before, “Be careful.”
I stroke him once.
He shuts his eyes.
That gives me a filthy little burst of satisfaction.
Then he catches my wrist, not stopping me, just slowing me down enough to keep me from turning this into something else.
“I need to be inside you,” he grits out.
I nod once. That’s all.
He rolls on the condom with quick, practiced movements and then comes back over me. One hand slides under my thigh, lifting it higher around his waist. The head of his cock presses against me.
I inhale sharply.
He looks at my face. “Tell me to stop.”
I don’t. I pull him closer with my leg instead.
He settles between my thighs and everything in me goes suddenly still.
Not because I don’t want him. God, I do.
I want him so badly it aches. But this is different now.
Five years is a long time. Five years of wanting him in memory is not the same thing as having him here, heavy over me, real and warm and looking at me like he can see every thought I’m trying not to have.
He must feel the change in me, because he stops.
His hand slides up my side, slower now, steadier. He looks down at my face, then lower, at the way my body tightens under his.
“What is it?” he asks, and his voice has changed too. Less heat, more care. That almost undoes me more than anything else.
I shake my head, but my body has already betrayed me. “It’s been a long time.”
His eyes hold mine. He understands faster than I expect. Not just the words. The truth under them.
“How long?”
I swallow. “Since you.”
For a second he says nothing. His whole face shifts, something rougher and quieter moving through it at once. Then he leans down and kisses me, not hard this time, not hungry, just deep and slow and devastatingly gentle.
“Katerina,” he says against my mouth, one hand smoothing over my thigh, “look at me.”
I do.
“We stop if you want to stop.”
I shake my head again, more certain this time.
His thumb brushes my cheek. “Then let me take care of you.”
And when he presses forward after that, he does it slowly, watching my face the whole time, giving me time for the stretch, for the shock of him, for the emotion of it to settle.
It still feels intense, almost too much at first, and I know he catches that too, because he murmurs my name and kisses me again, patient where he never used to be, until the discomfort eases and all that’s left is him, finally, after all these years, inside me again.
I moan against his throat, my nails digging into his shoulders, and he goes still halfway like he’s trying not to lose his mind too early.
“Fuck,” he says under his breath.
I almost laugh. “You too?”
That breaks something in him.
He buries himself fully and kisses me hard enough to steal the rest of the joke. Then he starts moving.
Deep. Slow. Controlled for about ten seconds.
After that, all the control turns into force.
He fucks me like he’s been trying not to since the minute I got in his car. Every stroke hard enough to drive the breath out of me, every kiss rough and hungry, every sound he makes low and unguarded and somehow worse than words.
The bed pounds softly against the wall.
I wrap both legs around him and take it because there is nothing else to do. Nothing else I want to do. His cock drags against everything inside me that already feels too sensitive from his mouth, and the combination is almost cruel.
“You feel so good,” he says into my neck, and there’s no polish left in him now, no distance, no careful control. Just heat and need and too much of both.
I hold his face and kiss him because I can’t bear not to.
He changes the angle and I fall apart as his cock throbs inside my pussy mercilessly.
My whole body locks around him and I come with his name on my mouth, not loud but desperate enough to make him curse and thrust harder, chasing his own end with the same relentless focus he uses for everything else.
A few seconds later he comes too, buried deep, face pressed against my throat, body shaking once, hard.
For a long moment neither of us moves.
He’s heavy over me, and I let him be.
The room is silent except for our breathing.
My pussy throbs around the fading fullness of him. My whole body feels used in the best and worst possible way. Somewhere beneath the heat and the exhaustion and the stupid satisfaction of having him like this again, I know I should be horrified with myself.
Instead I’m lying in his bed with my legs tangled around his waist, still wanting more.
Roman lifts his head first.
He brushes the hair off my face with the backs of his fingers and says nothing.
For once, that’s almost kinder than words.