Epilogue Sofiya #2
“You threatened a broker during dessert.”
“He earned it.”
Anton reaches me, slides one hand around my waist, and pulls me off the door. “My wife had a busy day.”
“She’s tired.”
His mouth brushes mine. “Then I’ll do the work.”
I tilt my head back as his fingers find the first button at the back of my dress. “Careful, husband. There are a lot of buttons.”
His smile turns dark. “Good,” he murmurs, opening the first one. “I’ve waited all day to get my hands on every single one.”
He drags that first button through its loop with infuriating care, fingertips grazing the nape of my neck, brushing the soft hairs there until goosebumps race down my spine.
I brace my hands against his chest, feeling the steady heartbeat under crisp white shirt and the hot intent simmering beneath.
“Turn around,” he murmurs.
I do, the silk of my dress whispering, the fitted bodice molding to my breasts while the long line of buttons trails down my spine. He takes them one by one, each small pop of thread sliding free accompanied by the brush of his knuckles along my skin. His breath warms the back of my neck.
“You’re shaking,” he says softly.
“I’ve been waiting all day to be alone with you,” I answer. My voice is steady. My body isn’t. Every button undone feels like a fuse lit.
He reaches the final clasp and peels the dress open, the heavy silk sliding down my sides until it puddles around my feet. Beneath it I wear nothing except the pale lace he chose months ago and slipped into my dresser without comment. He always leaves weapons where he wants them.
“Fuck,” he exhales, stepping back to look. I stand in the center of the suite wearing ivory lace that clings to every curve, stockings held by garters, heels still strapped on. His pupils blow wide, and the hunger in his face makes heat pool low in my belly.
“Anton,” I warn.
“Yes, wife,” he says, voice gone low and gravelly. “I’m listening.”
He isn’t. He’s devouring. “Touch me.”
His hands settle on my hips. He drags his thumbs along the delicate straps, then down over the lace covering my ass, squeezing, filling his palms with me like he owns every inch.
His mouth finds the base of my neck, teeth scoring lightly.
I arch, pressing back against him, ignoring the cold air on bare skin because his body is a furnace.
He turns me again, this time facing him.
His eyes drop to my breasts, the lace bra sheer enough to show hardened nipples beneath.
He cups me, thumbs grazing those peaks, watching the way my breath stutters.
When he bends, the first drag of his tongue over lace sends a shock straight to my clit.
He takes one nipple into his mouth through the fabric, sucks slow, wet, while his free hand slides down my stomach to hook under the lace at my hip.
“Take this off,” he commands.
“You take it off.” I’m not being coy. I want his fingers impatient, tearing, claiming.
His grin is pure predator. He hooks his fingers into the waistband and yanks the panties down, letting them rip at the seams when they catch on the garter straps.
I gasp, half from the shock of cool air on wet skin, half from the thrill of intentional destruction.
The ruined lace falls to the floor. He drops to his knees without ceremony.
One broad hand presses against my lower stomach, pinning me to the door; the other grips my ass. He darts his tongue between my folds with zero warning. Heat flares bright. “Ah—Anton!”
He groans like it’s a meal he’s earned. His tongue is rough, ravenous, sliding up, flattening, swirling around my clit before sealing his lips over it to suck.
I brace with both hands, fingers digging into his hair while he devours me.
There’s nothing gentle about this—just open, wet hunger designed to erase every last thought in my head.
The lace garters dig into my thigh, the heel straps biting my ankles, both anchoring me while he eats like a man determined to turn his wedding night into a confession.
His tongue thrusts inside me, curling, fucking me with slick heat before gliding up again. He murmurs against my swollen clit, the vibration sending lightning through me. I rock my hips into his face shamelessly.
“Look at me,” he says, pulling back enough to meet my eyes. His face glistens with me. “Watch what I do to you.”
My thighs tremble. He sucks my clit again, fingers sliding between my folds, first one, then two, plunging deep. He pumps them, wrist twisting, knuckles pressing against that spot inside that always makes my vision blur. “Come,” he orders, voice a growl muffled by my body.
I tip my head back, biting my lip until copper blooms on my tongue.
The pressure is vicious, relentless. When he curls his fingers just right and flicks my clit with his tongue, the orgasm detonates.
“Aah—Anton!” My knees nearly buckle. He doesn’t stop, lapping, swallowing every pulse, keeping me on the edge until I writhe, begging.
He stands, hands leaving trails of heat up my sides, through my hair.
He kisses me, letting me taste myself on his tongue, deepening the kiss until I clutch his shoulders to stay upright.
His hands move to my thighs, and in one motion he lifts me.
My legs wrap around his waist automatically.
He carries me away from the door, across the suite, and pins me to the wall near the bed.
“Hold on,” he murmurs.
I tighten my legs around him, arms looped around his neck.
He presses his cock against my slick entrance, still dressed, the friction driving me mad.
I reach down and unfasten his belt, fumbling because my hands are shaking.
He helps, sliding his pants and briefs down enough to free himself.
His cock springs up, thick and hard, slick with precum. He rubs it along my slit, teasing.
“Please,” I breathe.
He locks eyes with me, then thrusts in all at once.
I scream, hands fisting in his hair. He buries to the hilt, stretching me so full I can’t breathe.
He pauses, letting me adjust, then starts to move.
Each thrust slams my shoulders against the wall, his hips grinding, the base of his cock rubbing my clit.
I cling to him, nails digging into his back while he pounds me with filthy precision.
“You feel that?” he grits against my ear. “My wife. My queen. Taking me so deep, I forget everything else.”
I moan, tasting salt and steel in the air. “Don’t stop.”
He doesn’t. He snaps his hips faster, sweat beading on his forehead, herding me toward another climax.
The wall bites my shoulders. He cups the back of my head to cushion the impact, then captures my mouth again, tongue fucking in time with his thrusts.
My entire body is pure heat, nailed between wall and man, pinned by a husband who kisses like violence wrapped in velvet.
“Harder,” I pant.
He obliges. His pace becomes animal, the sound of skin slapping mixing with my breathless cries. “God, Sofiya,” he snarls. “You’re so tight for me. Tell me you’re mine.”
“I’m yours.”
“Again.”
“I’m yours, Anton. Always.”