15. Lena #2
Then he begins to move. He sets a punishing, deep rhythm from the start.
Withdrawing almost all the way until just the tip remains, then driving back in with a powerful thrust of his hips that jolts my entire body up the bed.
Each stroke drags against my sensitized inner walls, sparking fresh tendrils of pleasure that immediately begin coiling again.
The slap of his skin against mine, the wet, filthy sounds of our joining, fill the room.
My hate is gone, burned away by this all-consuming physicality.
My mind is empty of everything but the sensation of him—the smell of his sweat, the feel of his muscles working under my hands where they’ve somehow come to clutch his shoulders, the sight of his cock pistoning in and out of my body.
My own hips rise to meet his thrusts, a helpless, instinctive synchronization.
“You feel that?” he grunts, his pace increasing. “You feel how deep I am in you? This is where you belong. On my cock. Taking every fucking inch.”
His words are filthy, degrading, and they send another bolt of lightning straight to my core.
I can only moan, my head thrashing side to side on the pillow.
The friction is building again, a pressure so intense it borders on pain.
He shifts his angle slightly, and on the next thrust he hits a spot so deep, so perfect, that I see stars.
“There!” I cry out, my nails digging into his back. “Oh god, right there!”
A savage grin splits his face. “I know,” he breathes, and he aims for that spot with every brutal, perfect stroke. “I know your body better than you do, zhena moya. Now come for me again. Come on your husband’s cock.”
The command, the ownership in that word husband, is the final key.
The second orgasm detonates, even more powerful than the first. It rips through me with a violence that feels like being unmade.
My cunt convulses around his invading length, milking him, and a scream is ripped from my throat, a raw, ragged sound that holds his name.
Razvan’s control shatters. With a roar that is pure animal triumph, he slams into me one final time, his body going rigid.
I feel the hot, sudden pulse of his release deep inside me, jet after jet filling me up, marking me as his in the most primitive way possible.
He collapses on top of me, his weight crushing, his breath coming in harsh gasps against my neck.
We lie there, a tangled, sweaty mess of spent limbs and shocking intimacy. The silence is broken only by our ragged breathing. The reality of what just happened, what I just did, what I just felt starts to seep through the post-coital haze. A deep, shuddering sob works its way up my throat.
He must feel it. He rolls off me but immediately gathers me against his side, his arm a heavy, inescapable band across my stomach. His other hand comes up to my face, his thumb brushing away a traitorous tear I didn’t even know had fallen.
Oh no.
That’s the first thought. Before my eyes are open, before I’m fully conscious, before anything else.
Just the soreness hitting all at once and my brain supplying the reason for it immediately and comprehensively, and I lie there in the dark with my eyes shut and I hate myself and hate him and hate that there is a difference between the two and I can’t currently remember what it is.
I enjoyed it.
That’s the thing sitting in my chest when I finally open my eyes and stare at the ceiling.
Not just tolerated. Not just endured. I enjoyed every single second of my wedding night with the man I have sworn to kill, and my body has woken up this morning with the evidence of that all over it and there is nowhere to put the humiliation of it except directly into fuel.
Fine. I sit up. Fine. He wants a war? He has one.
Razvan’s side of the bed is empty and cold, which means he’s been up for hours, which means I’ve lost the first battle of the day before it started.
I get up, shower, dress, and go downstairs with my jaw set and my game face on and my entire plan being to make this man’s life as difficult as humanly possible.
He’s in the kitchen.
Not his office. Not the dining room. The kitchen, standing at the counter with coffee, reading something on his phone, and Theo is at the table eating what appears to be an architectural project made of toast soldiers, narrating the construction process to no one in particular.
“You’re in my kitchen,” I say.
Razvan doesn’t look up. “It’s my kitchen.”
“I’m trying to make breakfast.”
“Maria already made breakfast.”
I look at the table. There is indeed a full breakfast on it that I didn’t make and had no part in and didn’t ask for and I pull out a chair and sit down and pour coffee and say nothing because there is nothing to say.
“Mama your toast is getting cold,” Theo informs me without looking up from his construction.
“Thank you, baby.”
He adds another soldier to the structure, deeply satisfied with himself.
“I told Superman how you like your eggs,” he announces.
“I said no mixing the green bits in and he told Maria and Maria did it right.” He looks up at me with the expression of someone who has solved a significant problem. “You’re welcome, Mama.”
I look at my plate. Scrambled, not too dry, chives on the side.
I look at Razvan.
He’s still reading his phone.
I eat my eggs and say nothing. The fury of it sits somewhere in my chest where I can’t get at it cleanly because I don’t even know exactly what I’m furious about and that makes it worse.
The morning moves and I find my edges where I can. I tell the guard at the east corridor that I’m going for a walk outside and he steps aside and I get twelve steps into the grounds before I notice the two men who have materialized from nowhere and are walking a casual thirty feet behind me.
I stop. They stop.
I turn around and go straight to Razvan’s office.
“Call off your dogs,” I snap from the doorway.
He looks up.
“Your men. The ones following me around the grounds like I’m a flight risk.”
He raises a brow. “Why would I call them off and hand you a clean chance to run again?”
My jaw tightens. “I’m not going to run. I agreed to this arrangement and I—”
“You agreed the last time too,” he says pleasantly. “Right up until you didn’t.”