18. Mira #2
I stumble once, but his arm is firm around my waist, guiding me across the dim aisle.
He doesn’t stop until we reach the stacked bales at the far end—half-hidden from the house and anyone who might come in, but still exposed enough to give me a rush of adrenaline at the idea that at any time Batya could come looking for me.
“Here.” He turns me so my back hits the warm hay, the scent of it rising around us. His mouth finds mine in a rough kiss, his hand already sliding under my shirt, up over my ribs to cup my breast.
My jeans are yanked open before I can catch my breath, the zipper rasping down. “Been thinking about this since the second I walked in,” he growls, shoving them open.
“Renat—” My protest dies when his fingers slide between my thighs, stroking once before finding my clit and rubbing it in a tight steady circle.
I whimper and my knees almost buckle at how forceful he is sometimes, but when he takes control, I want to yield.
I want to be whatever it is he wants me to be whenever he wants me to be it, and I want to feel the pleasure only he can give me.
“Wet,” he says, almost to himself.
I grab his shirt, fisting the fabric, and pull it open. Buttons scatter onto the hay as I push it off his shoulders, tracing the ink and hard muscle I’ve thought about too many nights.
He unbuckles his belt with quick, practiced motions, freeing himself. The thick heat of him presses against my stomach as his hands close on my hips. “Turn around,” he orders.
He pushes me toward the bales, one hand on my hip to keep me where he wants me while the other yanks my jeans and panties just far enough down to bare me to him.
The rough brush of denim against my thighs makes the whole thing feel dirtier—hurried, reckless, like we both know we shouldn’t be doing it here.
The sound of his zipper lowering is sharp in the quiet barn, followed by the heat of him pressing between my legs. He shoves my knees wider with his thigh and drives into me in one hard stroke that forces a gasp from my throat.
“Fuck,” he grits out, his grip biting into my hips. “So tight, even like this.”
The hay scratches my palms, still tender from the burns, as I brace against the bales, meeting him as he slams into me again. His pace is brutal from the start, each thrust jolting through me, the rasp of our clothes turning every movement raw.
“You like me taking you like this,” he growls, bending to bite my shoulder through my shirt. “Fast. Hard. Where anyone could walk in.”
My breath catches, but I push back against him anyway, grinding into each thrust. “Maybe I like the thought of someone seeing you fuck me like this,” I pant.
His laugh is dark and breathless against my ear. “You’d let them watch? Let them see how wet you get for me?”
“Maybe I want them to,” I gasp, my fingers curling tighter into the hay. “Want them to know I’m yours.”
He groans, slamming deeper, his hand sliding up my stomach to grip my breast hard through the fabric. “They’d hear you too—hear you begging me to keep going.”
“Then make me beg,” I throw back, and his answering growl vibrates against my skin as he drives into me harder, hips snapping with brutal precision.
He fists a hand in my hair, yanking my head back so my mouth opens on a ragged gasp. “Beg, Mira.”
“Harder,” I breathe, the word breaking into a moan when he answers with a vicious thrust that drives me into the hay. “Don’t stop—don’t you fucking stop.”
His grip in my hair tightens, forcing my back into a sharper arch. “That’s it. Say you need it.”
“I need it,” I pant, curling my hands to fists to protect my tender palms and still brace myself. “Need you to fuck me harder?—”
He snarls something low in Russian and obeys, hips slamming into me with a force that makes the straw crackle under my weight.
“Taking me so deep you can feel it in your throat,” he growls, dragging me back onto him with every thrust. “You gonna come for me like this?”
My answer is a choked moan, my knees threatening to give as heat coils low and tight. “Yes—don’t stop.”
His fingers tighten in my hair until my scalp aches, his hips hammering into me faster, harder, as if he’s determined to wring every sound out of me before either of us gives in.
His pace turns brutal, each thrust slamming me into the hay so hard my forearms scrape the bales. I keep my hands curled tight in fists, knuckles tucked in to shield the raw skin, my weight held in my elbows as he drags me back onto him over and over.
“Feel that?” His voice is a ragged growl behind me. “Every time I bury myself in you, you squeeze me like you’re scared to let go.”
I bite back a cry, rocking against him despite the sting in my arms. “Don’t stop.”
He fists my hair harder, forcing my head back so the angle has me gasping. “You’re gonna come on my cock, right here in the hay, dripping all over me.”
A helpless sound escapes me, my thighs trembling as the sharp pressure builds. “Yes.”
“That’s my girl,” he snarls, slamming into me so deep it steals my breath. “Come for me, Mira. Now.”
The order tears through me—I clench hard around him, my release hitting in a rush that makes my knees buckle.
He grinds into me, a rough groan breaking from his chest before he drives deep and holds there, spilling hot and heavy inside me while his grip in my hair keeps me exactly where he wants me.
When his breathing starts to slow, he eases his grip in my hair and straightens, pulling me up with him.
My legs feel unsteady, but he keeps an arm around my waist, turning me to face him as he tugs my jeans back into place.
The wet slide of him inside me is gone, replaced by the slow warmth of his cum running down my thigh.
He tucks himself away, buckling his belt like nothing in the barn has shifted, then cups my jaw and kisses me hard—possessive and unhurried, as if the rest of the world doesn’t exist. When he finally pulls back, he keeps me close, his arms wrapping around me in a way that’s almost protective.
"I want you in my bed tonight," he rasps against my ear, and I nod at him, breathing him in.
I let myself sink into it for just a moment, breathing in the heat of him and the faint bite of smoke still lingering in his clothes.
But even wrapped in his arms, my mind spins.
I don’t know how I’m going to pull this off.
Rusalka isn’t ready—not for the kind of performance we need. The only way might be to fix the race.
And I’m not sure I know how to do that. At least not without help.