Chapter 37 Olivia
OLIVIA
His tongue claims my mouth, drawing a soft moan from my throat that I barely recognize as my own. My fingers tangle in his hair to pull him closer, while his hands slide down my back to grip my hips.
This feels right. So much about the last few hours—days? weeks?—has felt wrong. But not this. Touching Stefan Safonov feels right.
His hands find the zipper of my dress and tug it down. The whisper of metal sounds obscenely loud in the quiet hallway. Cool air kisses my exposed back as the fabric parts, but his palms are hot against my skin.
“Wait. Not… not here,” I gasp.
“Then where?”
His hands on my skin make it impossible to think. It takes me an eternity to remember where we are, where we could go.
“My room,” I finally manage.
He pulls back just enough to look at me, his eyes blazing with something that makes my knees weak. Without warning, he lifts me.
“I can walk!” I protest, but there’s no conviction in my voice.
“It’s the least I can do…” He grins. “… since I stole all of your shoes.”
So he admits it! There’s a red flag if ever there was one. But we’re long past the point of no return. I’m a puddle of raw need—and, if the heat slaking off of him is any indication, he’s in exactly the same predicament.
When we reach my bedroom, he kicks the door shut behind us. The room is bathed in moonlight. Everything is glowing, silver, fantastical.
He sets me on my feet but doesn’t release me. Those huge hands move up to cup my face.
If he keeps looking at me like that, I’m going to melt. I need him to fuck me before I start thinking this is more than it really is.
I reach for the zipper of my dress to finish what he started, but he catches my hands. “Let me.”
He does it slowly, his breath held captive in his chest just like mine is. Inch by inch, my body is exposed to the moonglow.
The dress falls away like wilting petals and falls silently to my feet. His eyes roam over my body—black lace bra, matching panties, not that I planned any of this. Just luck of the underwear drawer, I guess.
All he says is, “Beautiful.”
It’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever heard.
I start to reach for his shirt, then I stop myself out of anxiety. I look up at him and he simply arches a brow.
It’s a dare. I can almost hear his teasing rasp: How bold are you, Dr. Aster?
Good fucking question. I no longer know.
My fingers are shaking, but I put them to work. One by one, the buttons come undone, revealing the tanned skin and hard muscle beneath. I drink in every detail.
Dark chest hair. A tattoo over one pectoral, inky black. A scar along the ribs and another over his liver. Descending cliffs of his abs, pointing down, down, down.
When I get to his belt, though, his hand closes over mine. “Not yet,” he says. “I want to taste you first.”
I take it back—that’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever heard.
He doesn’t wait for permission before he’s lifting me again and setting me down on the edge of the massive bed. He kneels before me and shoves my knees apart. Not tender anymore—this is rough.
He hooks two fingers in the waistband of my panties and drags them down my legs, then tosses them aside. Palming the insides of my thighs to keep them wide, he lowers his face and exhales onto my center.
I hear his jaw crack as he parts his lips—but then he stops. Looks up at me. And sighs.
“Always thinking, thinking, thinking,” he scolds. “Do you ever turn that mind of yours off, Dr. Aster?”
He’s right. Even now, with his hands on my skin and the most insane cocktail of desire coursing through me, my mind is racing with questions. Who is he, really? What does he want with Walsh? Why me? Why this? Why now?
Stefan chuckles, like he can see all of that and more, written clear as day on my face.
Then he shrugs and puts his mouth to my pussy, and it all goes up in smoke.
Thought becomes literally impossible as he devours me. I’m a twitching live wire, bouncing, writhing, until he plants a palm on my lower belly to pin me in place.
His lips are lashing at my clit. He strokes a finger over me, teasing up and back down, before sliding it in deep. I whimper, but when he asks if I want another, I nod, desperate.
He works two into me, pumping to the pace of his tongue, and I have to bite my lip to stifle the moans.
“Let it all come out,” he commands as he moves the hand on my belly up to rip away the one covering my mouth. “No one will hear but me.”
As he says that, he adds a third finger and sucks my clit in an open-mouthed kiss. The fullness, the oversensitivity, the wrongness and rightness of it all—
I cry out as I soar over the edge.
“Stefan!” I gasp. I’m tugging on his hair to bring him closer, to push him away, to shatter him the way he’s shattering me.
Distantly, I hear him groan, but I’m lost to the sensation. It hits me again and again, wave after wave. He doesn’t stop licking me for a long, long time.
I’m still trembling with aftershocks when he finally relents. He leans back, then rises above me. The moonlight casts half his face in shadow as he removes the rest of his clothes. His eyes never leave mine.
“How do you want—?” I start to ask, already knowing I’m too limp to roll over or hold myself up.
It doesn’t matter. Stefan crawls over me, his elbow pressing into the mattress next to my head while he teases himself against me.
I whimper, and he grounds out a low curse. “You feel fucking unbelievable, Olivia.”
I want to tease and ask how he can know. He isn’t even inside me yet.
But then he jerks his hips forward, and I’m parting around him like I was made for this.
He swallows my gasp with a kiss as he bottoms out inside of me. I’ve never been so full in my entire life. Tears form in my eyes from how damn perfect it feels.
But he isn’t moving. Why isn’t he moving? Is he confused about how this works? Am I?
His forehead rests against mine. “Look at me,” he whispers—
—and so I do.
What I see in his eyes is more terrifying than any bullet I saw today. It’s not just desire—that would be simple, manageable, understandable.
It’s a hunger that looks exactly the way mine feels.
I try to close my eyes again, but he reaches up to squeeze my face in those hands. “No,” he snarls, sounding angry enough to startle me into keeping my eyes open. “I said you are to fucking look at me.”
Then he rears back and fucks into me hard.
I cry out because it’s just too much, all too fucking much. But giving me too much seems like a game to him.
He takes over, using and abusing my body like he knows way better than I do just how much it can take. He forces my thighs wide so he can smash his hips into mine with every brutal thrust. The bedframe quivers and whimpers, and so do I.
Unspeakable noises come out of me, but with his hand clamped around my face, I don’t dare look away. It’s just Stefan’s face I see, eyes black, jaw knotted.
It’s just Stefan’s body I feel, blanketing mine, protecting mine, violating mine with my full and desperate permission.
I’m trying to spit out curses or pleas or maybe prayers, I don’t even know, but he doesn’t give me room to talk. He just fucks me and fucks me. His free hand fastens around my throat, or it toys with my clit, or it scoops up under my ass to give him an angle to absolutely fucking destroy me.
And every third or fourth breath, he’ll growl out my name—“Olivia”—almost angrily, as if he’s fucking furious that I’m making him do this to me. Like it’s all my fault.
Maybe it is.
The tension rises in me to a peak and erupts. Then I’m coming beneath him. I feel the wetness increase and there’s no way in hell he doesn’t feel how hard I’m clenching around his thick cock.
But he doesn’t stop. Hell, he doesn’t even slow down. In fact, he just pulls out of me for a fraction of a second, flips me onto my belly with my legs dangling over the edge of the bed, and then he’s inside me again.
His chest is heavy and hot on my back. He reaches down to stroke my clit and steer my hips with each of his hands, dragging me onto his length so that the thrusts find their way home even harder than before.
I just moan into the mattress as another orgasm rips through me like wildfire.
I can feel when he finally gets close. It’s like the light at the end of a tunnel we’ve been hurtling down for so, so long.
The pace of his fucking stutters, stops, breaks, and then he says my name again, three times, back to back to back—“Olivia, Olivia, Olivia”—before he finishes in me, until I’m swimming with him, drowning in him, and there’s no part of me left that doesn’t belong to Stefan Safonov in every way that matters.