31. Cass #2
When his tongue finally finds me proper, I jolt off the bed.
“Easy,” he murmurs against me. One big hand spreads out on my belly and pins me back down. “Stay.”
He licks a slow line up the middle of me, then another, then settles in like he’s got all afternoon. Maybe he does. We’re alone in here, after all, with a locked door between us and the world.
How many times can he make me his? How much can my body handle?
What about my heart?
The thought makes my hips twitch and his hand presses harder. “I said, Stay ,” he snarls into my pussy.
His mouth closes over the spot that matters and he sucks, just once. I make a sound I’d be embarrassed by if I had the bandwidth for that. Since I don’t, it’s wanton and reckless.
He hums against me, pleased, and does it again.
“More,” I beg. “Please, please?—”
“Look at you. Asking so nicely. It almost makes me want to give you what you’re asking for.”
That’s the prelude to some agonizing edging if I’ve ever heard it. But he’s not as cruel as he pretends to be, because it’s only a few more minutes of teases before he gives me more.
His tongue works over my bud in tight little circles, then flat strokes, then back again. He reads every twitch of my thighs, every catch in my breath, and adjusts to bring me higher and higher.
“Now,” he orders against me when he can feel me convulsing my way to the edge. “Cum for me, pretty girl.”
I fall apart on his tongue with one hand fisted in his hair and the other clamped over my own mouth.
When I come back to myself, he’s resting his forehead against my hipbone, breathing through his nose, jaw clenched so hard that I keep waiting for his molars to crack like it’s ice on the windows we’re currently fogging up.
What is it about a man looking up at you from between your legs that’s so orgasm-inducing? I can’t imagine I look good from this angle. For him, I’m a sweaty, double-chinned wonder. But Matvei…
He’s a god. A blue-eyed demon, a tormentor, an angel, a perfection. His irises shine and his lips are bright with the traces of my desire. As I look down at him, thighs still trembling, that wicked tongue of his flickers out to claim a drop of me that’s clinging to the short stubble of his beard.
“I think I might die if you don’t fuck me right now,” I breathe.
Immediately, I flush with embarrassment. I’ve never been a dirty talker, but something about Mat makes me feel so feral. With him, there’s a way out of myself. A freedom from my own body. Or maybe deeper into my own body, him granting me access to places I can’t reach on my own?
I don’t know. All I know is that I want more of it.
Grinning viciously, he climbs.
He’s still in his pants, which is criminal.
The millisecond he’s close enough for me to reach, I claw at the buckle like it has personally offended me.
He laughs and helps me. The rest of his clothes go off the side of the bed.
Then he settles between my thighs, the bulk of him pressing me down into the mattress, and stops.
His face hovers above mine. The pupils are still huge. The jaw is still set. But his eyes—God, his eyes. They are looking at me like I am a thing he is trying to save in his head forever.
“I want you to listen to me,” he says as he kisses each temple in turn. “I’m not going to be gentle. With you, I can’t be.”
I gaze up at him and bite my lip.
“And I’m going to say things.” His hand slides into my hair, gathers it at the nape. “Things that I have wanted to say to you for a long time. Because I don’t know how to hold them back anymore.”
I nod meekly. “Okay.”
“I’ll put you back together again once we’re done. But first, my love… I’m going to tear you the fuck apart.”
Then he pushes inside me.
It’s not gentle. He warned me.
But it’s not cruel, either.
It’s just what happens when all the paths are open.
He pushes inside me and bottoms out on the first stroke. Just like that, I lose my mind.
He sinks into me to the hilt, and the sound I make isn’t a moan so much as a punched-out, undignified oh that catches in my throat like it’s wrapped in barbed wire and stays there.
“Fucking finally ,” he breathes against my temple. His hand fists tighter in my hair, just shy of pain. “You don’t know how long I’ve missed you, my dirty fucking girl.”
He pulls back. Slams home. The headboard knocks the wall behind it once, hard, and I think dimly that the Crispin’s bone structure is about to be put through its paces.
“You wanted to kill him for me, didn’t you?”
I can’t answer. I can only nod, eyes squeezed shut, mouth slack against his collarbone.
“Look at me when I’m fucking you, dikarka. ” Another snap of his hips. “Eyes on mine.”
I drag them open. The blue is barely there anymore. It’s black, black, black.
“You raised a shotgun for me.” His voice is a purr, almost reverent, and so completely at odds with what he’s doing between my legs that I feel my whole body go hot with it. “Pretty little hands on a trigger. For me. For our baby. You think I don’t know how frightening that must have been for you?”
He shifts his weight onto one forearm and the other hand slides down to my throat. It rests there, thumb against the hollow under my jaw, like he wants me to feel that he could squeeze if he chose to.
“I’m Matvei fucking Satyrin,” he snarls. “And you’re my wild little filly. My dikarka. Do you hear me? What’s my name?”
“Matvei.”
“Good girl.” He drops his forehead to mine. His breath is hot, ragged, citrus and coffee. “Again.”
“Matvei—”
“Again.”
“Matvei, Matvei ?—”
“Good. That’s the only fucking name you say from now on. Not his. Mine .” His hips piston into me, slow and brutal. I’m opening and clamping around him at the same time. “When you wake up. When you fall asleep. When you put your hand on our baby. Mine. ”
I’m clawing at his back. I can feel the welts forming under my fingernails and I couldn’t possibly care any less. I want there to be blood to mark this moment. Every other moment we’ve ever shared has blood, so why not this one?
He hisses against my ear, pleased, and bites down on the meat of my shoulder hard enough that I yelp.
“Sorry,” he murmurs, not sorry at all, licking the spot. “I’ll be gentler next time.”
I think we both know that’s a damn lie.
He hooks an arm under my knee and folds me nearly in half, sliding deeper somehow. The new angle makes me see actual stars, little white pops behind my eyelids like flashbulbs. My nails find his ribs, find the pucker of the scar, and his whole body shudders.
“There,” he grits out. “Right there. That’s the spot where I almost died for you. Remember that, dikarka ? Remember me bleeding all over you?”
“Mat—”
“I would do it again. Tonight. Tomorrow.” His mouth is at my ear, his thrusts going erratic, ragged. “I will bleed for you every day for the rest of my fucking life. Do you understand me?”
I’m crying. I don’t even know when I started. The tears are sliding sideways into my hair. He catches one with his thumb and presses it into his own mouth like he wants it.
Then his hand leaves my throat and goes between us. The pad of his thumb finds my clit on the first try. He works it in tight circles, never slowing the pace of his hips, and I can feel everything coiling, gathering, climbing.
“You’re going to cum on my cock,” he tells me. “And then you’re going to do it again. And then maybe, if you’re very fucking sweet to me, I’ll let you sleep.”
“I can’t?—”
“You can.”
“Mat, I can’t, it’s too?—”
“You can. ” His teeth find my earlobe. “Because I told you to. You belong to me, darling. That’s our baby in there and I want her to know what her mother sounds like when she’s happy. Cum for me. ”
It’s the her that does it. Her. He said her. He has a guess, a hope, a daughter in his head already, and the shock of it cracks me wide open. I shatter around him with a sound I’ll be ashamed of in the morning, full-throated and his , and he fucks me through it with his forehead pressed to mine.
True to his word, I cum once more before we finally finish. Mat erupts inside me and it’s like a homecoming of sorts. A feeling of rightness as he marks me as his again.
When he pulls out, I whimper at the loss. He shushes me, kisses my forehead, and slides off the bed.
I hear water running in the bathroom. A minute later, he’s back with a warm washcloth. He nudges my knees apart and cleans me up, slow and careful, the way he did that first night in the ER.
Once that’s finished, he slips back into bed and pulls the duvet up over both of us. Then he arranges me against his chest, my cheek on his shoulder, one of his legs slotted between mine. His hand finds my belly and rests there.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Mhmm.”
“Anything hurt?”
“No.”
He kisses the top of my head. His fingers spread wide over my stomach.
“‘Her,’ huh?” I say.
“What?”
“You said her .”
He’s quiet for a second. “Did I?”
“You did.”
His thumb brushes back and forth across my skin. “Hm. I guess I did.”
We lie there for a while. The light in the room has changed as the sun dies early. The fire in the grate has burned down to coals. Matvei’s hand hasn’t stopped stroking across my womb. Back and forth, back and forth.
“Mat? Will you tell me something?”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. Something I don’t know about you.”
At first, I think he’s not going to answer. Then he says, “My father’s name was Gervasii.”
“Gervasii,” I repeat softly. Like if I say it too loud, the name will spook Matvei away. “Gervasii Satyrin.”
“That’s the one.”
I tilt my chin up so I can see his jaw from below. His Adam’s apple bobs.
“Tell me about him,” I encourage.
“He was Bratva,” Matvei says eventually. “Not that high up. Not low, either. Somewhere in the middle, where you have just enough power to get yourself killed and not quite enough to keep it from happening.”
“What was he like?”
“Strict,” he answers right away. “Not always, though. He could be funny, when he wanted to be. He liked card games. Cheated his ass off, but that’s a lesson, too, I suppose.”