Chapter Thirty-Three #2
“Good girl,” he murmurs, and those two words send a flood of wet down my thighs. I’ve never been anyone’s good girl. Never wanted to be. But the approval in his voice makes me desperate to earn more praise, to take whatever he wants to give me.
The fourth strike lands across both cheeks, and I bite back a scream of pleasure. My skin feels alive, hypersensitive to every breath of air, every brush of fabric. I’m so wet I can feel it on my legs, shameful evidence of how much I’m enjoying this.
“Four,” I choke out, pressing my face deeper into his pillow to muffle the needy sounds escaping my throat.
His hand pauses, fingers tracing the heated skin. “Look at you, taking your punishment so beautifully.”
The praise makes me whimper. I want to be beautiful for him, want to be everything he needs. The realization should scare me— this desperate desire to please a man I barely know, to submit to his will so completely.
Instead, it just makes me wetter.
The fifth strike comes harder, and I arch like a bow beneath him. The sting is exquisite, perfect, pushing me toward something I don’t understand but desperately need.
“Five!” My voice breaks on the word.
“Halfway there,” he says, his breathing rougher now. I can hear the strain in his control, feel it in the way his free hand grips my hip with bruising force. “You’re doing so well for me.”
The sixth strike makes me sob his name into the pillow. Not with pain— never with pain— but with overwhelming sensation that threatens to tear me apart. My skin burns deliciously, and every nerve ending screams for more.
“Six,” I manage, my voice nearly gone.
His hand soothes over my abused flesh, and the gentle touch is almost worse than the strikes. It makes me aware of how sensitive I’ve become, how every caress sends sparks shooting through my system.
“Almost done,” he murmurs, but his voice carries a promise that this is just the beginning.
The seventh strike lands with precision across the fullest part of my ass, and I come undone. My back arches impossibly, and a sound somewhere between a scream and a moan tears from my throat. I’m flying, burning, desperate for something I can’t name.
“Seven!” I choke out, tears of pleasure streaming down my cheeks.
Two more powerful strikes follow in quick succession, each one driving me higher until I’m sobbing with sensation that threatens to overwhelm every rational thought.
“Eight! Nine!”
The final strike lands perfectly, and my world explodes into white-hot pleasure.
I scream his name as something inside me shatters, waves of sensation crashing over me with devastating force.
My body convulses against his sheets, and I realize with shock that I’m coming— actually climaxing from nothing but his hand on my ass.
“Ten,” I whisper, my voice wrecked.
For a moment, neither of us move. My breathing is ragged, labored, as aftershocks continue to ripple through my oversensitized body. Behind me, I can hear Osip’s harsh breathing, feel the tension radiating from him in waves.
“Krasivyy,” he murmurs, his palm smoothing over my heated skin with infinite gentleness. “So beautiful when you surrender to me.”
The words make me shiver with renewed want. I should be mortified that I came from a spanking, should be demanding explanations or running for the door. Instead, all I can think about is how empty I feel, how desperately I need him inside me.
“Please,” I whisper, not even sure what I’m begging for.
His hands grip my hips again, and I feel the bed dip as he leans over me. His mouth brushes my ear, his breath hot against my skin.
“Please what, Ilona? Tell me what you need.”
The command in his voice makes my core pulse with desperate hunger. I know what I need, what I’ve been craving since the moment he kissed me. But saying it out loud feels like crossing a line I can never uncross.
“You,” I breathe, the admission torn from somewhere deep inside me. “I need you.”
His answering growl is pure possession. “Like this?” One finger slides inside me slowly, so slowly I want to scream. The stretch is delicious but not nearly enough.
“More,” I beg shamelessly. “I need more.”
He adds a second finger, but his movements remain torturously slow. Just enough to drive me wild but not enough to push me over the edge I’m desperately climbing toward.
“You’re so tight,” he murmurs, his free hand kneading the reddened skin of my ass. “So wet. All for me.”
His thumb finds my clit, applying just enough pressure to make me cry out before retreating. The pattern continues— building me up only to pull back when I’m on the verge of release.
“Osip, please,” I sob. “I can’t take anymore.”
“Yes, you can.” His voice is steel wrapped in velvet. “You’ll take what I give you and be grateful for it.”
Something about his tone, the authority in his voice, sends recognition flickering through me. Familiar in a way that makes no sense but feels absolutely right.
“I need you,” I whisper, pushing back against him. “Please, I need you inside me.”
Behind me, I hear the sound of his belt buckle, his zipper sliding down. When I feel the hot length of him pressing against my entrance, I push back eagerly.
“So impatient,” he chuckles darkly. “But I like that about you.”
He enters me in one powerful thrust that makes me see stars. The stretch is mindnumbing, filling me until I can barely think. I freeze, clutching the sheets as I get used to the sheer size of him.
“You feel incredible,” he breathes against my ear. “Like you were made for me.”
Something about those words resonates deep in my chest, familiar in a way I can’t explain. But then he starts to move, and my mind turns to mush again.
His pace is relentless, each thrust driving me closer to another peak. One hand grips my hip while the other tangles in my hair, pulling my head back as he claims me thoroughly.
Hot breath tickles my ear before words in Russian pour out, low and commanding.
“ Ty moya ,” he growls, punctuating each syllable with a powerful thrust. “ Tolko moya .”
I don’t understand the words, but their effect is instantaneous. My body responds to the raw possession in his tone, clenching around him as heat floods through me.
“What does… that mean?” I gasp, barely able to form the question as he drives deeper.
His teeth graze my earlobe. “ Ya khochu tebya vsyu ,” he continues, ignoring my question. The foreign sounds roll off his tongue like dark honey, each word dripping with intent that makes my skin prickle with goosebumps.
More Russian phrases follow, each one rougher than the last. The meaning is lost on me, but the effect is undeniable— each word feels like a physical caress, heightening every sensation.
“ Ty takaya krasivaya, kogda ty pod mnoy ,” he murmurs, his voice strained with effort as his pace increases.
Something about hearing him lose control in his native tongue pushes me closer to the edge. It’s deep, intimate— like he’s revealing a part of himself he keeps hidden from the world.
“Osip,” I whimper, my body trembling on the precipice of release. The angle hits something perfect inside me with every stroke, building pressure that threatens to shatter me completely. When his hand slides around to work my clit again, I know I won’t last much longer.
“Come, beautiful girl,” he commands. “Come all over my cock.”
The combination of his voice, his touch, and the relentless rhythm of his body pushes me over the edge. My second orgasm is even more intense than the first, rippling through me in waves that leave me sobbing his name.
He follows me over, his release hot and pulsing inside me as he buries his face in my neck with a groan that sounds almost pained.
We stay like that for long moments, both breathing hard as we come down from the high. When he finally pulls out of me, my thighs give way, and I sag onto the bed.
“That was…” I trail off, not sure how to finish the sentence.
“A mistake,” he says quietly, but there’s no regret in his voice.
I turn to face him, drinking in the sight of his powerful body marked with ink and scars. “Was it?”
His gray eyes meet mine, and I see something there that makes my heart skip. “Ask me tomorrow.”
But even as he says it, his hands are already reaching for me again, and I know this is far from over.