21. Razvan #2
Her hands in my hair tighten, pulling almost painfully. I welcome it. I want her marks on me.
Her climax builds like a storm. I feel it in the tightening of her inner walls around my fingers, in the frantic pulsing of her clit against my tongue, in the way her entire body tenses, coiling like a spring.
I don’t relent. I increase the pace of my fingers, driving them deeper.
I suck harder on her clit, drawing it into my mouth.
“Razvan, I can’t… I’m going to…”
“Let it happen,” I growl against her skin, my voice muffled by her flesh. “Give it to me.”
She breaks.
The orgasm crashes over her with a force that shakes the bed.
She screams, a raw, shattered sound that echoes in the room.
Her body convulses, her thighs clamping around my head, her internal muscles gripping my fingers in a series of frantic, rhythmic pulses.
I keep my mouth on her, my fingers inside her, riding the wave of her pleasure until it subsides into trembles and soft, exhausted sighs.
I withdraw slowly, my fingers slick, my lips wet. I look up at her.
She is wrecked. Glorious. Her skin is flushed a deep pink, her hair a wild mess on the pillow. Her eyes are closed, her chest rising and falling rapidly.
I crawl up her body, my own need a burning, urgent fire in my gut. I kiss her mouth, letting her taste herself on my lips. She kisses me back, her movements sluggish but hungry.
“You are so ready for me,” I whisper, my voice thick with desire. My hardness presses against her thigh, a blunt, urgent demand.
She opens her eyes, her gaze hazy but focused on me. “I am,” she says, her voice a hoarse whisper. Her hand reaches down, her fingers wrapping around my length. The touch is electric. She guides me to her entrance, her body still pulsing with the aftershocks of her peak.
I watch her face as I push inside. “This isn’t the estate, Lena. There are no guards here. No son in the next room. Just us.”
I sink into her in one slow, agonizingly deep thrust.
The sensation is overwhelming. She is so tight, so perfectly molded for me, that I have to grit my teeth to keep from coming instantly. I stay still, buried to the hilt, watching her expression transform from shock to a deep, visceral satisfaction.
“You’re so full,” she gasps, her internal muscles clenching around me in a rhythmic welcome that nearly breaks me.
“I’m never going to be enough for you,” I growl, beginning to move.
The pace starts slow, meaningful. Each thrust is a claim.
Mine. Mine. Mine. The bed frame groans against the wall, a steady, rhythmic thud that matches the pounding of my heart.
Lena is a storm beneath me—her heels digging into the backs of my thighs, her nails marking my shoulders.
She isn’t a victim tonight. She is a participant, meeting every thrust with a desperate surge of her own hips.
“Look at me,” I command, my voice a wrecked rasp. “I want to see you when you break.”
She watches me, her gaze unfocused but locked on mine. The heat in the room is stifling, the scent of sex and expensive perfume filling my lungs. I pick up the pace, driving into her with a relentless force that has her crying out my name, over and over, until it’s the only sound in the world.
“Razvan! Razvan!”
But I don’t let her break yet. I slow again, withdrawing almost completely, leaving her panting and empty. Her eyes widen in confusion, her hips chasing the sensation I’ve taken away. “Don’t stop,” she begs, her voice ragged.
“I haven’t stopped,” I say, my voice low. I shift my weight, pulling her up and turning her so she’s kneeling on the bed facing away from me. I guide her hips, my hands firm on her waist. “I want to see all of you.”
She obeys, her back arched beautifully. I admire the view—the slope of her spine, the perfect roundness of her ass, the damp curls of hair clinging to her neck.
I run my hand along the path my eyes take, feeling the heat of her skin.
Then I press my thumb against the tight bud of her other entrance, applying gentle pressure.
She gasps, a new kind of tension seizing her body. “Razvan…”
“I want to claim every part of you,” I murmur, my other hand guiding my hard cock back to her soaked, waiting core. I push inside again, filling her completely while my thumb continues its persistent, circling pressure against her other tightness.
The dual sensations make her cry out, a sound that’s half pleasure, half overwhelmed surprise.
Her body bucks against me, trying to accommodate both points of contact.
I hold her steady, my thrusts into her warmth becoming deeper, more possessive, as my thumb works her other nerve cluster with an increasing rhythm.
Her internal muscles flutter around my length, a frantic, pulsing rhythm that tells me she’s close.
I increase the pace of my thumb, applying just a bit more pressure, just a bit more focused friction.
She begins to shake, her knees buckling on the silk sheets.
I support her weight, never ceasing my movements.
“I’m… I’m going to…” she chokes out, unable to form the words.
“Let go,” I command, my own breath coming in harsh gasps. “Give it to me.”
Her orgasm crashes over her with a violence that mirrors my own need.
She screams, a raw, unfiltered sound, as her body convulsively grips me.
The sensation of her contracting around me, so tight and so hot, triggers my own release.
I let go of my control, driving into her with a final, brutal series of thrusts as my thumb presses firmly, holding her in that peak of sensation.
My own climax is a white-hot wave of possession. I empty myself into her with a groan that comes from the deepest part of my soul, my body locking against hers as we both shudder through the aftershocks.
We collapse together onto the damp sheets, a tangled mess of limbs and sweat. Her body is limp against mine, her breathing still erratic. I hold her, my arms wrapped around her, my face buried in her damp hair.
We lie there for a long time afterward, the only sound the ragged synchronization of our lungs. The sweat is cooling on our skin, and the St. Petersburg moonlight is casting long, silver shadows across the rumpled sheets.
I shift my weight, expecting her to push me away. Expecting the wall to go back up.
Instead, she stays. She rests her head on my chest, her fingers tracing the line of my collarbone. She avoids the tattoo on my wrist—the mark of the man who killed her father—but she doesn’t shrink from the rest of me.
I wrap my arm around her, pulling the duvet over our tangled, damp limbs.
“Go to sleep, zayka,” I murmur into her hair.
She doesn’t answer, but she doesn’t pull away. She closes her eyes, and for the first time in my life the silence doesn’t feel like a threat. It feels like a truce.
But as I watch her breathe, I know the truce is temporary. Tomorrow, the gala begins. Tomorrow, the wolves will be circling. And tomorrow, I have to remember how to be the man who can let her go if it means keeping her alive.
Right now, though? Right now, she’s exactly where she belongs.