Chapter 6 Vera
Vera
Alone. With him.
My husband starts undressing.
Jacket first, draped over a chair with controlled precision. Tie next, pulled loose and discarded. His hands move to his shirt buttons and I can't look away as he reveals himself inch by inch.
The tattoos.
God, the tattoos.
I've seen hints of them on his hands and his neck, but nothing prepared me for the full scope. They cover his chest in intricate detail. Orthodox stars on his shoulders. A cathedral spanning his pectorals. The Virgin Mary over his heart. Cyrillic script I can't read winding around his ribs.
He's built like a predator, with broad shoulders, defined chest, ridges of muscle across his abdomen. Silver hair trails down from his navel, disappearing beneath his pants. Scars cut through the ink here and there, pale lines that tell stories of violence.
He's forty-five years old but his body is hard, powerful, maintained. This is a man who's killed with these hands. Who's survived things that would break lesser men.
And he's about to use that body on me.
He unbuckles his belt, the leather sliding free with a soft hiss that makes me flinch. Unbuttons his pants. Lowers the zipper.
Then he pushes everything down, pants, boxer briefs, all of it, and steps out of them.
I stop breathing.
His cock is... it's...
I've never seen one before except in diagrams in health class, and those didn't prepare me for this. For him.
He's hard. Fully erect, jutting out from a nest of dark hair. Thick—so thick I don't understand how it's supposed to fit inside me. The shaft is rigid, veined, curving slightly upward. The head is broad and flushed darker than the rest, already glistening at the tip.
It's intimidating. Almost obscene in its size and obvious intent.
"That won't fit," I whisper.
He moves toward me, predatory and purposeful. "It will. I'll make sure of it."
His hands cup my face, forcing me to meet his eyes. "I've been gentle with you so far. Patient. But tonight I'm taking what's mine. All of it. And you're going to let me."
He reaches behind me, unhooks my bra with practiced efficiency. It falls away and his hands immediately cover my breasts, thumbs brushing over my nipples.
"Perfect," he murmurs. "These are going to look so beautiful when they're full of milk for my baby."
The casual certainty with which he talks about getting me pregnant makes my stomach flip. My body responds traitorously, nipples hardening under his touch.
He guides me backward until my legs hit the bed. Then he pushes me down gently but firmly, following me onto the mattress. His weight covers me, all that hard muscle and hot skin pressing me into the sheets.
"I'm going to worship every inch of you," he says, mouth moving to my throat. "And then I'm going to make you mine."
His lips trail down—neck, collarbone, the swell of my breast. When his mouth closes over my nipple, I gasp. The sensation is overwhelming, wet heat and gentle suction that sends electricity straight between my legs.
He takes his time with my breasts, alternating between them, using his tongue and teeth until I'm squirming beneath him. My hands find his hair, not sure if I'm trying to push him away or pull him closer.
"So responsive," he praises against my skin. "I'm going to love using this body."
His mouth continues downward. Kisses across my ribs, my stomach. His hands hook into the waistband of my panties.
"Lift," he commands.
I lift my hips and he slides them down, along with the garter belt and stockings, stripping me completely bare.
The cool air hits my exposed flesh and I try to close my legs instinctively. But he's between them, hands on my thighs, holding me open.
Heat floods my face. No one has ever seen me like this. I've never even really looked at myself there—just quick glances in the shower, always feeling vaguely uncomfortable about it.
And now he's staring.
"Don't hide from me." His eyes are fixed between my legs, intense and possessive.
"I—" My face burns hotter. "What if you don't... what if it's not..."
I can't even finish the sentence. What if I'm not pretty enough there? What if I smell wrong? What if—
"What if what?" He looks up at me, reading my mortification clearly. "What if I don't like your pussy?"
The crude word makes me flinch. "I just... I've never... no one's ever..."
"Good." His thumbs stroke the inside of my thighs. "No one else gets to see this. Only me. And I've been imagining what you look like here for two years."
"But what if—"
"You're perfect." He lowers his head, breath hot against my sensitive flesh. "Pink and wet and mine. Stop thinking."
Then his mouth is on me and all thoughts evaporate.
I cry out at the first touch of his tongue. It's so different from his fingers in the library—hotter, wetter, more invasive. He licks through my folds slowly, deliberately, like he's memorizing the taste of me.
"Pyotr!" His name escapes as a gasp.
"That's right," he growls against my sensitive flesh. "Say my name while I eat my pussy."
The crude words make me wetter despite myself.
His tongue finds my clit and circles it with maddening precision. I'm already sensitive from his earlier attention, and this—this is too much. Too intense. I try to pull away but his hands grip my thighs hard, holding me in place.
"Stay still," he orders. "Let me taste you properly."
He devours me. There's no other word for it. His mouth works me with single-minded focus—licking, sucking, his tongue pushing inside me while I writhe and gasp above him.
When he slides two fingers into me alongside his tongue, the stretch makes me tense.
"Relax," he murmurs, the vibration against my clit making me whimper. "You took my fingers before. You can take them again."
He works them slowly, carefully, letting me adjust while his mouth continues its assault on my clit. The dual sensation is overwhelming. Pleasure builds in waves, cresting higher and higher until I'm trembling on the edge.
"Come," he commands against me. "Come on my tongue so I can taste it."
His fingers curl inside me, finding that spot that makes me see stars, and I shatter. The orgasm crashes through me, my body clenching around his fingers while I cry out his name.
He doesn't stop. Keeps licking, keeps moving his fingers, drawing it out until I'm oversensitive and trying to push his head away.
Only then does he pull back, sitting up between my spread thighs. His mouth and chin glisten with my arousal. The sight should embarrass me. Instead it makes something hot and shameful coil in my belly.
"Delicious," he says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "I'm going to do that every day. Make you come on my tongue before I fill you with my cock."
He moves up my body, settling his weight between my legs. I can feel his erection pressing against my entrance—hot, hard, impossibly large.
This is it.
"Look at me," he commands, cupping my face. "I want you looking at me when I take your virginity."
I meet his eyes. Those ice-blue eyes that have haunted me for three days.
"It's going to hurt," he tells me, no softening of the truth. "Your body isn't used to being penetrated. The pain will be real. But I'm going to go slow. I'm going to make it as good as I can. And then I'm going to fuck you until you forget what it felt like to be empty."
He reaches between us, and I feel him positioning himself. The broad head of his cock presses against my entrance and panic flares hot and immediate.
"Pyotr, I don't think…"
"Breathe," he interrupts, pressing forward just enough that I feel my body starting to give way. "Just breathe, malyshka. Your body was made for this. Made for me."
The pressure increases. He's so big and I'm so tight and it feels impossible. Like trying to fit something that will never, ever go in.
"It won't. It can't."
"It will." He pushes harder and I feel myself stretching, my body trying to accommodate him. The burn starts—sharp and insistent. "Relax. Stop fighting me. Let me in."
But I can't relax. Every muscle is tensed against the invasion. He's splitting me open and it hurts and—
He thrusts forward, pushing past my resistance with one firm, claiming motion.
I scream.
The pain is white-hot, sharp, nothing like I expected. It's not just discomfort or pressure—it's agony. He forces himself inside and I feel the sting as delicate tissue stretches beyond its limit.
"Fuck," he groans above me, and I can hear the strain in his voice. His whole body is shaking—trembling with the effort of not moving. "So tight. So fucking perfect. Christ, Vera."
His voice breaks. I can feel him pulsing inside me, his cock throbbing like it's trying to release already.
"Don't move," he grits out, more to himself than to me. "Don't fucking move or I'll—"
He's barely holding on. I can see it in the tension of every muscle, the way his jaw clenches, how his hands grip the sheets beside my head with white-knuckled force.
I'm gasping, crying, my nails digging into his shoulders. He's huge inside me—impossibly huge. I feel impaled, stretched beyond what my body can handle, split open around his thickness.
"It hurts," I sob. "Pyotr, it hurts."
"I know." His arms are shaking on either side of my head. "I know it hurts, malyshka. You just lost your virginity. Your body just took a cock for the first time. Of course it hurts."
He's barely breathing. Every exhale is harsh and ragged. His hips make tiny, involuntary movements—instinct trying to take over even as he forces himself to stay still.
"Need—" He squeezes his eyes shut. "Need to not move. Three days. Three days of saving everything and you're so tight I'm going to—fuck—"
The burning is intense. I can feel where I'm stretched too wide, the ache deep inside where he's pressed against my cervix. And I'm so full—too full. There's no room left inside me. He's taken up every inch of space.
"Breathe," he orders, voice shaking. "Just breathe. Let your body adjust. Please, malyshka, adjust quickly because I can't—I need to move—"