29. Sofiya #2
He releases my throat, brings his fingers to my mouth.
“Suck.” His voice leaves no room for argument.
I open, take them in, tongues swirling around the digits drenched in my slick from earlier.
He watches, eyes burning, and groans when I hollow my cheeks, sucking hard.
He slides them out, trails them down my breast, pinches a nipple, then drags them further south to find my clit again.
“Hold on,” he orders.
I brace and he thrusts faster, slamming me against the glass with each stroke.
The frame rattles. The hand on my clit moves ruthlessly, circles sharp and exact, the other hand clamping my hip so hard I know I’ll wear his imprint tomorrow.
The combined pressure builds, the coil returning with vicious speed.
My head tips back against his shoulder. He kisses my jaw, my ear, whispers filthy encouragements. “So fucking tight. So wet. You love when I fuck you against the window. You love that someone might look up and see us. Say it.”
I shake my head, breathless. He bites my shoulder again, harder. “Say it.”
“I love it,” I gasp. “Goddamn you.”
“Good girl.” He rubs faster. “Come.”
I explode. There’s no buildup this time, only the immediate, violent release that tears a scream from my throat.
My knees buckle. He catches me, keeps thrusting even while I quake around him, milking his cock with every pulse.
The fall seems endless. The glass fogs as I gasp for air.
He rides me through the aftershocks, voice turning savage.
“That’s it. Give me everything.”
He doesn’t let up. The grip on my clit softens but doesn’t stop, coaxing, prolonging. My body trembles, thighs shaking uncontrollably. I push back into him, begging without words for more. He answers with guttural curses, thrusts turning erratic as his own release builds.
“Turn around,” he growls. He pulls out, spins me by the shoulders, and pushes me back against the glass, facing him now. My chest heaves. He looks feral—hair mussed, eyes wild, jaw clenched. His cock glistens with my slick.
“Knees,” he commands.
I sink down. The cold tile bites my kneecaps, grounding me as I wrap my hand around his cock.
He hisses through his teeth when I stroke.
“Open,” he orders. I take him into my mouth without hesitation, tasting myself on him, swirling my tongue around the head before sliding down as far as my throat allows. He groans, head tipping back.
“Fuck, Sofiya.” His hand fists in my hair, guiding, pulling me down until his shaft hits the back of my throat.
I breathe through my nose, swallow, let him fuck my mouth.
He thrusts slow, measured, and I meet each push with a moan that vibrates around him.
Spit slicks my chin. He watches me, eyes molten, lip caught between his teeth.
“You look so good like this,” he growls.
“My wife, my queen, on her knees for me.” I hum, the sound earning a desperate curse.
He holds my head and thrusts a little faster, hitting deep.
My eyes water. He loves that. He slides out, letting me catch my breath, then feeds himself back in.
I hollow my cheeks, suck hard, and the vein along his shaft jumps.
He gentles, pulls me up again by my hair, kisses me like he needs my mouth to survive.
I climb up his body, wrap my legs around him, and he lifts me easily, pressing me against the glass again.
His cock nudges my entrance and I sink down onto him, both of us groaning as he stretches me again.
I cling to his shoulders, digging nails into muscle, while he rolls his hips slowly, letting us both drown in the pressure.
He carries me away from the window and across the room, each step still inside me, every motion a reminder of how much we’ve learned each other’s bodies.
He lowers us onto the couch in the sitting area, laying me out and crawling over me like a tide.
The rain-hazed city remains in the background, but now the room closes in, intimate and dark.
Anton braces on his elbows, thrusting deeper now, the couch springs groaning under the rhythm.
My legs hook around his waist, ankles locking at his lower back.
He pumps harder, sweat slicking his chest, eyes never leaving mine.
Every stroke sends a fresh wave of heat through me, even my overstimulated body begging for more.
“You’re a miracle,” he says, voice rough, every word punctuated by a push. “You gave me a daughter. You survived me. You still want my hands. My mouth.” He kisses me, crushing, feral. “Marry me.”
I blink up at him, brain stuttering. “We already live together.” I gasp when he thrusts particularly deep, hitting a spot that makes me see glass-sharp stars.
“That isn’t enough for me anymore.” His hand slips between us, rubbing my clit again because he knows I’ll answer quicker when my body is melting. Manipulative bastard. Perfect, manipulative bastard.
I laugh breathlessly, even as he rides me. “You always did know when I’d agree to anything.”
“Say yes,” he whispers. “Please.” The word is almost silent. He thrusts again, deeper, and his control frays. I feel him shaking, perched on the edge, refusing to fall until I do.
“Yes,” I breathe. “Obviously, yes!”
He groans like I just gave him air. His thrusts turn erratic, desperate. “Come with me,” he demands.
“I can’t,” I wheeze. “You already—” His fingers pinch my clit sharply, and the pain-pleasure spark detonates another orgasm despite the exhaustion.
I cry out, body arching off the couch as shocks ripple through me.
He slams deep one last time, shuddering, cock pulsing as he empties inside me.
“Sofiya!” His voice is raw. He spills into me, hips jerking, breath ragged. The heat floods, searing.
He collapses on top of me, bracing most of his weight on his elbows so he doesn’t crush me, but I wrap my arms around him anyway, holding him close.
His heartbeat hammers against my chest. The rain has mellowed to a drizzle outside.
Our daughter’s laughter drifts in from the kitchen, accompanied by Zhenya’s dry sarcasm and the muted curse of a guard stepping on a toy.
Anton’s breath eventually steadies. He lifts his head and kisses me, gentle now, gratitude bleeding into every touch.
He slides out carefully, prompting a wet gasp from both of us, then lies beside me, pulling me onto his chest. My hair tangles across his skin; his hand traces lazy patterns on my back.
“Where’s this marriage happening?” I murmur, still high on endorphins.
“Wherever you want,” he says. He reaches into the pocket of his discarded slacks on the floor, pulls out a velvet box I hadn’t noticed earlier, and holds it between us.
“Tell me you will stand in front of everyone we choose, not because we’re forced to, but because we survived the kind of war that should have killed us, and we still chose each other. ”
My throat tightens. “You carried that box while planning to pin me against the window?”
“I multitask.”
I laugh, faint and shaky, and take the box.
Inside is a ring that glints like broken stars—a wide band in platinum, set with three stones.
One blazes like a captured comet, flanked by two smaller gems, all sharp fire and clarity.
One for him, one for me, one for the small tyrant painting the kitchen with cherries right now.
“Yes,” I say again, more certain than breath. “Anton, yes.”
He exhales, relief and joy crashing together, and slides the ring onto my finger. Then he kisses me with a reverence that turns fierce in a heartbeat, a promise sealed with salt and heat and the knowledge that we chose this life twice now—once out of war, once out of love.