Elena
Kissing him like my life depends on it is the only way to stop myself from breaking.
His mouth is hot and demanding, his hands sliding under my thighs to lift me.
I climb him, wrap my legs around his waist, and let the keyring fall somewhere between us because I can’t hold anything when he kisses me like that.
My back hits the dark wood-paneled wall and the shock goes right through me, a fizz of pain over my bruised ribs that makes me hiss.
He pulls back just enough to search my face.
“I’m fine,” I breathe, though my lungs burn.
His stare stays dark. His thumb presses low on my belly, a brief reminder of the life we aren’t speaking about right now, then he drags that hand up slowly, cupping my breast through the thin knit of my dress.
I arch against him, needing contact everywhere.
I twist my fingers into his hair, tug hard, and kiss him again, faster, rougher.
He groans into my mouth. I taste vodka, smoke, and every fear I haven’t named.
He carries me to the bed, drops me like I weigh nothing, and strips my dress over my head in one swift movement.
I’m in black lace barely containing my breasts, and that makes his eyes flash. He palms both, thumbs circling my nipples until they harden, until my hips jerk up seeking friction.
“More,” I whisper.
He strips his shirt open, sleeves rolled, muscles tight, scars catching the light.
He drags the lace down, frees me, and folds the bra over the edge of the bed as if even in fever he keeps his order.
Then he lowers his head and sucks one nipple into his mouth, tongue flicking.
Pleasure shoots through me, shimmering down to the ache between my legs.
I run my hands over his shoulders, feel the steel under his skin, then claw down his back in sharp lines.
He lifts slightly, and his eyes track my face. “Tell me if anything hurts wrong,” he murmurs, voice softer but still feral.
“I’ll tell you to keep going,” I answer, and he does.
His mouth trails down my stomach. When he reaches the curve just above my pelvis, he looks up, checks me once, then kisses the bruise there with exquisite care.
That single soft kiss nearly ruins me. My throat tightens, and I bury my fingers in his hair, pull him higher until our mouths crash again because if we stay gentle I’ll fall apart.
He hooks his fingers under the edge of my panties, pulling them down my thighs slowly, dragging his knuckles along my skin.
He slides them off completely and tosses them aside.
I’m naked on his bed. He stays kneeling between my legs, eyes traveling from my face to my stomach to the damp heat between my thighs.
He swears under his breath, reverent and obscene.
“Spread,” he orders.
I part my knees and feel the cool air wash over me, goosebumps chasing up my legs, but the lust flooding me is blazing hot.
He lowers his head and licks over my clit once, a slow wet stroke that makes me cry out.
He licks again, faster, then seals his mouth around me and sucks hard, his tongue flicking in a rhythm that shoots electricity through my body.
My hands grab the sheets, knuckles white.
I pant, hips rocking instinctively. He clamps my thighs with his hands, keeping me open, his tongue plunging deeper. I moan, “Maksim—”
His answer is a growl against me. He slides two fingers inside, curls them just right, and the combination of tongue and thrusts turns me molten.
I rock against him, losing control fast, the orgasm rising sharp, unstoppable.
I gasp his name again and convulse, pleasure crashing through me like a wave.
“Ohhh—” My cry breaks, jerky, some part of me aware of the life inside me and yet my body still grasping at pleasure like oxygen.
He doesn’t stop when I come. He keeps licking, dragging it out until I shout and shove at his shoulder. Only then does he lift his head, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes glazed with hunger.
“Taste yourself,” he says, voice wrecked.
He kisses me hard, shoving his tongue into my mouth so I taste my own release on him.
I pull him closer, wrap my legs around his waist again, drag him down.
His chest presses to mine, hot skin against hot skin.
I grind against the bulge in his trousers and feel how hard he is, thick and insistent.
I want him inside me until the world stops.
He stands, ripping his belt open, yanking his trousers and briefs down at once. His cock springs free, flushed and ready. He climbs over me again, supports himself with one hand braced by my head, and lines up. The seconds stretch.
“Elena.” It’s a warning and a prayer.
I bite my lip, nod, and roll my hips up. “Fuck me.”
He thrusts slowly, filling me inch by inch. The stretch is deep and sweet, a sting at first, then a fullness that makes me moan low. He seats himself completely, groaning, his head dropping to my shoulder. “You feel like fire.” His breath ghosts over my ear. “Every time.”
“Move,” I demand, clawing at his biceps. “I need you to move.”
He pulls out, thrusts back in, the pace measured, mindful of my bruised ribs.
He watches my face for any sign of pain.
I give him none, only hunger. I roll my hips, meeting every thrust with a grind of my own, the movement rubbing my clit against his pelvic bone.
Sensation sparks. I dig my heels into the mattress and ride him in reverse, forcing him deeper.
His restraint wavers. He starts to thrust harder, faster.
His hands grip my waist, fingers pressing into my bruised skin but not crossing into pain.
I moan, louder, rawer. The rhythm pounds into me, the headboard thumping softly against the wall.
“Harder,” I whisper, voice frayed.
He groans and obeys, driving deeper, the bed creaking.
Wet sounds fill the room. I don’t care if anyone outside hears.
He drops his head and sucks my nipple again, biting gently, the mix of pain and pleasure making me gasp.
I grab his hair, yank his head up, and bite his lower lip until I taste blood.
He growls, thrusts viciously, and I scream into his mouth, the sound swallowed.
He flips me without warning, guiding me onto my side, one hand on my stomach while he lifts my leg over his hip.
The position lets him slam into me from behind without crushing me.
He keeps one hand on my stomach, fingers spread protectively while his hips pistons into me faster.
I moan into the pillow, the angle hitting new places, the friction relentless.
“Tell me how you feel,” he grits.
“Like I could burn the estate down,” I pant.
“Good.” He bends over, kisses the back of my neck, the tenderness a contrast to the pounding.
His hand slides down, finds my clit again, rubs circles that make me arch back into him.
The next orgasm builds quicker, coiling tight.
Heat floods me, pulse racing. He feels it, thrusts harder, fingers ruthless.
I break apart, crying out, “Maksim!” as the climax rips through me.
My muscles clamp so hard around him he swears, gasps, “Elena,” and loses control.
His hips jerk, and he groans against my shoulder.
He thrusts through the aftershocks, slower now, milking every shiver, until he collapses behind me, chest heaving.
We lie tangled, sweat cooling on our skin.
His hand stays over my stomach, thumb drawing small circles, protective and tender.
He kisses my shoulder blade, mouth gentle, breathing slowing to match mine.
I lace our fingers together and let the feeling sink in—my body wrecked, my heart pounding, his warmth anchoring me. I could fall asleep like this, finally.
He doesn’t move away after, and that’s what I notice first. I pull the blanket up and shift back against the bed, and he rolls onto his side beside me, bracing on one arm while his other hand stays on my thigh.
“Tell me something real,” I say, and I catch his wrist, my fingers tracing the lines there, old scars, clean and placed, nothing careless about them.
His gaze stays on mine, bare and heavy-lidded, and his arm remains across my thighs, his fingers tracing a slow circle over the blanket as he says, “My father ran the house like a command post, and my mother made it feel like a home anyway.”
“And Irina?” I say, softer, and his mouth twitches as he leans in and slides his hand under the blanket, and I place mine over it to stop him, laughing under my breath.
“Yes, there was Irina,” he says, and his fingers slide a fraction higher on my thigh.
“Tell me.”
He watches me for a second, then says, “When I was ten, my father decided swimming built discipline, so he had a guard throw me into the lake.”
I blink, then lean closer. “In winter?”
“Spring,” he says, drawing his hand back and shifting closer as he sits up beside me. “He was feeling generous.”
“What did you do?”
“I sank.”
I laugh, and he gives me a dry look as his hand passes over my shoulder.
“I had stones in my pockets,” he adds.
I nudge his shoulder. “You brought rocks to a swimming lesson?”
“I was ten.”
“Did they save you?”
“No,” he says, and he shifts closer, his arm sliding behind my back where his hand finds my waist under the blanket. “Irina did, and then she made my father stand in wet trousers.”
“Why?” I ask, laughing as I fold forward.
“She shouted at him for endangering her stupid little prince.”
My laugh fades as he moves closer, his hand settling at my waist and his thumb pressing into the curve where it dips into my hips.
“You’re still that boy sometimes,” I say, and my fingers curl into his wrist.
His expression shifts, his face tightening just a fraction. “It kept me alive.”
“And now?” I ask, and I don’t move when he leans in and kisses me on my mouth.
His hand turns, threading through mine, his thumb pressing into my palm. “Now it’s harder to stop.”
“Then don’t stop. Just don’t forget there’s more than that.”
He studies me, doesn’t look away, just stays.
“I don’t forget,” he says, his voice low.
I could leave it there, let the bed stay warm and his hand stay in mine. But the key is still on the table, and the lock it opens is still sitting between us.
“What happens if the wrong men get hold of me now?” I ask.
His hand stills against mine. He doesn’t answer fast, and that tells me he’s already walked himself through it.
“Tell me,” I say.
His voice goes flat. “They force signatures if they can. If they can’t, they wait for the child.”
My hand closes over my stomach. “And if I fight?”
“You would,” he says, and his eyes hold mine. “That’s why they’d restrain you early.”