Chapter 10 - Anton
The reflection shows me with blown pupils and a swollen mouth, slightly parted, and breaths so obviously affected that there’s no option to pretend otherwise. And that’s just my reflection.
For Darya’s, there are no words. Words fail me.
But one thing’s for sure—in the aftermath of this torturous day, defined by an overlap of memories past and present, I don’t know what the fuck to do with this. The man in the mirror is a stranger to me. What’s worse is that he isn’t willing to wait around for me to make up my fucking mind.
Not when Darya purrs, “Are you going to strangle me with a ribbon because I’ve emasculated you?”
The man in the mirror finds humor in her obvious provocation.
He doesn’t fall for it. The reflection doesn’t display it.
It’s for my eyes alone that I cinch the silk around her wishbone-thin wrists, winding it once, twice, three times around them, and tie it off.
And then I press my hips forward, pressing the rock-hard erection she’s caused into those bound hands.
“Do I feel emasculated?” I chide.
It brings a smug flush to my chest that she can’t resist touching me.
She strains against the restraint she let me wrap her in just to stroke me from tip to base and back.
My choked-out groan is as much praise for the action as it is for the way her pupils blow at her own exploration.
If the size of my cock daunts her, it doesn’t translate.
Darya’s eyes, heavy-lidded and mesmerizing, are bright with curiosity.
Her voice is a slow drip of honey, drawling, “You feel desperate for me.”
“Then I should probably see how equal we are on that count,” I say.
She rubs the delectable curve of her ass against my erection, hungrily drinking in my reaction in the mirror.
I let her see it—see the way she affects me.
She can take in the way my face heats at the sight of the pretty pink imprint where my hand struck her.
I only care about cupping that cheek, squeezing, smoothing a cool palm over the imprint, and the way it makes her lashes flutter shut.
Let her have evidence that she turns me on.
Sexless robot? I’m going to fucking destroy her.
“I want you to watch,” I insist, exhaling the words against her temple.
She doesn’t listen. Of course not. Defiant, she rolls her shoulders back, shifts the weight on her high-heeled feet, and rubs me through my trousers.
I expel a dark laugh against her warm, sweet skin.
Pleasure dots my vision. It’s been too fucking long for me.
Too long to keep myself from bucking against the contact with another tormented groan.
“Fuck, Darya—”
“You haven’t earned that yet,” she taunts.
It snaps me back.
“No?” I ask gently, lips pressing just behind her ear.
I live for the way a shudder wracks through her chest. The rosy peaks of her nipples poke through the lace. My touch merely ghosts over them, barely grazing. Fingers return to the hooks holding her little bodysuit together, toying with them. She swallows thickly, like her mouth is cottoned.
I’ll bet it is. She can’t seem to close it all the way.
There’s no way for her to fight the shocked, throaty little whine when I rip her panties away with a sharp yank.
She deserves no fucking reprieve. My hand comes down hard at the same spot a second time, but with a grip that latches now.
A grip I don’t let up on, even as it drifts between her cheeks.
Her body stiffens—and I coo at her ear, pinning her against the dresser with a press of my pelvis.
My hand is the breadth of her back. I shove her stomach parallel to the ground.
“How can I be emasculated? I’m a lucky fucking man today, aren’t I?
All these holes are mine now.” My lips drag along her shoulder.
“But don’t worry, Darya—I won’t start here,” I assure.
It’s the truth. And I make it a lie when I drop to my knees. My tongue drags down the cleft.
Desperate is a good word for how wet her pretty, glistening cunt is. But what can I do? I can’t spare my mouth to rub her face in it. I make do with a twin pair of fingers dragging through the mess she’s making.
I can’t wait much longer before I’m spreading her open with my thumbs and licking a stripe from her swollen clit through her dripping folds. Look at that smart mouth and the way she still can’t fucking help but push back into my face. The way, in a matter of minutes, she’s dripping down my chin.
She has my cock ready to throw a party before my mouth’s eaten its fill. It doesn’t fucking help that she squirms against the ribbon. So feral, I’m concerned she’ll rip right through it.
“So impatient,” I mutter, using all that squirming to suck at her hip. “Are you impatient enough to beg for a sexless robot to fuck you?”
In front of my very eyes, her pussy clenches over my words.
Still, her mouth taunts, “Do you think licking me like a starving dog is enough to make me beg?”
Humming, I let my breath fan out over her glistening pussy. My tongue flicks mindlessly against her nub.
Oh, Darya.
“I was going to give it to you nice and easy. Let my wife come, so you could appreciate how good this marriage could be for you if you only let it.” I sigh, as if I’m disappointed in her.
“I can see now that that’s too generous for a person like you.
You mistake my manners for complacency. That won’t do, will it? ”
I don’t bother looking up to see her realize the mistake she’s made.
No. I bend over and, in one fluid movement, push two fingers deep inside Darya while sucking her clit into my mouth, letting my tongue play her nerve endings like a fucking violin, until she’s shaking, her toes curling in her heels.
Until her hips try to buck, and my free hand holds her in place, refusing to let them.
Until she’s swollen, and dripping, and so, so fucking close—
And then, I pull away.
The rhythm broken, I soothe her furious cry with a sweet lap of my tongue across her cleft. When I take that, too, away from her, she dares to whine at the loss.
“Can’t make up your fucking mind, can you, wife?”
She fumes. She doesn’t answer.
With another laugh, I start all over again—with a different rhythm to my licks. The fingers inside of her curl, hooked towards her pelvis. Her walls clamp around them so tightly, it’s a fight to add the third. A worthwhile fucking battle.
Dragging her to the edge a second time is that much easier. The more she gets lost in what makes her feel good, the easier it is to use it against her. The third time, her feet twitch in her shoes. I pause to lick at the sweat behind her knees and peel those shoes away, one at a time.
By the fourth time I leave her hanging from the edge I won’t let her drop from, she’s grown suspiciously quiet.
“You’re dripping, Darya. You need this so fucking badly, don’t you?” She won’t answer me. I slap her thigh hard. “Don’t you?”
Her cry is muffled. I suspect she’s biting her lip to hold her sounds in, sealing them away from me.
And that isn’t all.
When I look up, it’s to find her hands in white-knuckled fists, nails dug into her palms. For control, I guess.
The sight of it makes me want to bust in my fucking pants.
It takes little force to unravel those fists—what, with how she fucking wrecks me?
I press my lips to the crescent moons cut into her skin.
A prelude to other kisses, I drag up the notches of her spine, charting my path to the sweat-damp crook of her neck.
“Look at yourself, Darya.” As cruel as I’d been to the bottoms, it’s twice as gingerly that I free her wrists. “I don’t need to tie you up to make you lose control.”
Still, “My control—is mine,” she pants.
Her indomitability is magnificent. She’s not a woman who can be broken.
Though it’s sure fucking something to let her believe that’s what I’m trying for.
Fun, I think, might be the word for it. I admire the fight in her, so unlike any other person I’ve ever known.
Fight for the sheer principle of the thing.
Even if those principles are what impede the orgasm her body is undoubtedly begging her for.
The ribbon flutters to the ground.
“If you give it to me,” I breathe, each word a vow I’m still fully dressed to make, “I’ll make it worth your while. Don’t you want that?”
“H-how?” She glares at the hitch in her breath.
“Show me the rest of that body, first.”
The quick work she makes of the row of hooks holding the top together is worthy of the awe she inspires. That awe pales in comparison to when she unveils herself to me. Every last inch of her creamy skin, blotched all over in rosy Rorschach blots.
I swallow hard. It takes effort to get words out, huskily, “Can you decide between my fingers or my cock?”
She’s never been more stubborn than in this moment, refusing to let her gaze drop. I can tell she wants to look away. She still fucking doesn’t. Oh no, she looks me right in the eye and orders, “Make me cum around your cock, Anton.”
I give her an approving nod that earns me a scowl. “Get it out and soak it for me.”
For all the malice in the look she shoots me, the way she rips at my belt buckle and zipper, then watches my cock bob out for her, is still the truest thing about her.
I’m not about to voice it—but I’m fucking grateful she doesn’t take the opportunity to torment me.
If she’d dropped to her knees, it would have obliterated every plan I had for her body.
I would shoot my load down her throat in a matter of minutes, with no care for whether she fucking finishes first or not.
This is what she does to me.
This is what she fucking reduces me to—this primitive, hunger-driven savage who paws at her tits without any control. Who grips her at the waist and whips her around, spitting into my palm to soak my fucking cock myself, just to notch the tip at her entrance as soon as goddamn possible.
My vision is a haze of spots as her wet heat envelopes me. Her legs vibrate against my thighs, and I’m still the one who can’t get a fucking grip. She’s heaven.
Fuck.
She starts to cum before I’m even all the way buried inside her.
Her back falls into an arch so deep, it’s a cocoon to fall into.
I nearly do, bending over her, and stop myself just in time.
I’ve stolen the advantage her heels gave her height, but her orgasm will thank me for it.
The spirit of innovation has me gripping her at the knee and hoisting it up to the dresser’s edge, spreading her wide, wider still, to slam the fuck into.
She chokes on her own whimper when I bury myself inside of her, buried to the hilt. Where I won’t allow her more than a handful of seconds to adjust to the size, I go slower with the deep, punishing strokes I pound inside her with.
I barely allow the spasms to weaken before my thumb grazes her throbbing red clit.
She nearly sends me into an early grave when her muscles jerk anew, carrying her on new waves, and her every breath leaves her like it’s all she can do to keep her head above water.
I hold her upright with a forearm roped around her, the weight of her breast in my palm, her nipple a distraction I pinch and roll and pluck at to keep a fucking hold of myself.
Her walls flutter and flutter.
She’s still not one to just stand there and take it. Darya pushes back, meeting every thrust with a downward roll of her hips, refusing to yield, and breaking my skin, too, wherever her talons drag. The back of my neck, my arms, my thigh. And I don’t fucking care.
Everything burns already.
Every speck of my control goes into keeping my release at bay, breathing, panting, pleasure boiling in my groin, threatening to spill.
She makes it fucking worse. With every sound. With every writhe of her perfect fucking body. Mindlessly, needily, Darya writhes against me. She clenches her cunt around me, trying to milk me, yanking at the thread on my control like it’s her life’s purpose. Her single-minded focus.
There are tears in her eyes, and still, they meet mine in the reflection.
And it almost doesn’t fucking matter that I don’t recognize the man in the mirror. All I’ve got eyes for is her.
This goddamn woman.
Darya.
Darya Yuri-Zakharov.
My wife.
“Let it go,” she whines, her head falling back against me, curls bunched and remnant pins stabbing my chest. “Let it go, Anton—”
Even now, she challenges me. Her pussy is drooling down my fucking thighs, and she’s still got the upper hand. Jesus Christ.
I come so hard, there are stars in my eyes.
Her name is in my mouth, and it may as well be a prayer.
The reverence is sickening. Helpless fucking reverence.
As involuntary as the thick, hot spurts I pulse inside of her, filling her till I can’t tell if it’s her juices or my seed, trickling between her legs.
Darya.
The beginning of my end.