Matilda
My body feels like it's been taken apart and put back together wrong.
Or maybe right. I don't know anymore.
I'm lying against Gennady's chest, his arm wrapped around me, our legs tangled together beneath the sheets. I can feel him still half-hard against my thigh, and the awareness makes heat pool low in my stomach again despite the lingering soreness between my legs.
His hand strokes up and down my spine in slow, soothing movements. It's intimate in a way that has nothing to do with sex, and somehow that makes it even more overwhelming.
Then reality creeps in, and with it, a realization that makes my stomach drop.
"Gennady?" My voice comes out smaller than I intended.
"Mm?" His hand doesn't stop its rhythmic stroking.
"We didn't... I mean, you didn't use..." I trail off, heat flooding my face.
His hand stills for a moment, then resumes. "No. I didn't."
The casual way he says it makes me push up on my elbow to look at him. "Shouldn't we have, I mean, what if I get pregnant?"
He hardens fully against my thigh as something hot and possessive flashes in his eyes. "Good."
I blink. "Good?"
"Yes." He rolls slightly so he can look at me properly, his hand coming up to cup my face. "I want you pregnant, Matilda. I want you round with my child as soon as possible. I want everyone to see you carrying my baby and know exactly who you belong to."
My mouth goes dry. "That's—that's a lot."
"I know." His thumb brushes my cheekbone. "But I don't do anything halfway. You're my wife now. That means you're going to have my children. Plural. As many as you'll give me."
"You should have asked me first," I say, but my voice wavers.
"Would you have said no?"
The question hangs between us. Would I have? I don't even know. Everything is happening so fast, my thoughts can't keep up with reality.
"I don't know," I admit.
"Then it's better I didn't ask." His voice is matter-of-fact, but not unkind. "You're mine, Matilda. That includes your body, your pleasure, and yes—your womb. I'm going to fill you with my children because that's what I want. And because deep down, I think it's what you want too."
"How do you know what I want?" The words come out sharper than intended.
"Because you're still here." His eyes search mine.
"Because when I told you I was going to fill you up, you came harder than before.
Even if we take the sex out of the equation, you want the stability of a family, you want to prove that good can come from something not so good.
You want to show the world you can be an amazing mother despite the parents you had. "
Heat floods through me because he's right. The idea of being pregnant with his child makes something warm and primal unfurl in my chest.
"What if I'm not ready?" I whisper.
"Then we'll figure it out together." His hand slides down to rest on my stomach, possessive and warm. "But I'm not going to apologize for wanting this. For wanting you carrying proof of what we are to each other."
His hand on my stomach feels like a brand, and part of me, albeit a part I don't want to examine too closely, likes it.
"You're insane," I finally say.
"Probably." He pulls me back down against his chest. "But you married me anyway."
I rest my head over his heart, listening to the steady rhythm. His hand resumes its soothing path up and down my spine, and slowly, the tension drains from my body.
"Does it hurt?" he asks quietly.
"A little. But it's not bad." I shift slightly, feeling the tenderness between my legs. "More like... awareness."
"Good. That's normal." His hand slides lower, cupping my hip. "I want you sore tomorrow. I want you to feel me every time you move and remember who you belong to."
The possessiveness in his voice sends a shiver down my spine.
"You're very..." I search for the word. "Territorial."
"Yes." No apology in his tone. "You're mine, Matilda. I don't share. I don't compromise. And I don't let go of what belongs to me."
"I'm not a possession," I say, but it comes out weaker than I meant it to.
"Aren't you?" His hand tightens on my hip. "You wear my ring. You took my name. You just took my cock and my cum, and if I have my way, you'll be carrying my child within the month. If that doesn't make you mine, I don't know what does."
My breath catches because he's right. I am his. In every way that matters, I belong to Gennady Petrov now.
"And you're mine too," I say quietly, surprised by my own boldness.
His chest rumbles with a sound that might be a laugh. "Yes. I am. Completely."
We lie in silence for a moment, his hand continuing its soothing path along my skin. The afternoon light is fading, into that orange pink glow that promises warmer days are coming.
"Can I ask you something?" I venture.
"Anything."
"Earlier, when you..." I pause, trying to find the words. "When you touched me. Before. You seemed to know exactly what to do. How to make me feel—"
"Good?"
"Yes." Heat floods my face again. "How did you know?"
"Experience," he says simply. "And paying attention. Every woman is different, Matilda. But if you watch carefully, listen to the sounds she makes, feel how her body responds, she'll tell you exactly what she needs."
The mention of other women sends an unexpected spike of jealousy through me. "How many—" I stop myself.
"How many women have I been with?" He doesn't sound bothered by the question. "Enough to know what I'm doing. Not so many that it meant anything."
"And with me?"
"With you," he says, his voice dropping lower, "it means everything."
The words settle over me, warm and heavy. I don't know if I believe them, we barely know each other, but I want to believe them.
"I want to make you feel good too," I admit quietly. "But I don't know how."
"You already do." His hand slides up to tangle in my hair. "Just being here with me, letting me touch you, watching you fall apart on my cock, that's everything."
"But I want to..." I trail off, embarrassed.
"Want to what?"
I push up on my elbow again to look at him. "I want to touch you. Make you feel the way you made me feel."
Heat flares in his eyes. "Matilda—"
"Teach me," I say, surprising myself with the boldness. "Show me what you like."
He stares at me for a long moment, something hungry and almost feral crossing his face. Then he rolls onto his back, pulling me with him so I'm straddling his hips.
"You want to learn?" His hands settle on my thighs, fingers digging in slightly. "Then take what you want. I'm yours to explore."
I look down at him, this powerful man who could break me with one hand, and feel something shift inside me. He's giving me control.
The realization is intoxicating.
I lean forward and press my mouth to his, kissing him the way he kissed me earlier, deep and demanding. His hands tighten on my thighs, but he lets me lead, lets me explore.
I kiss down his jaw, his neck, tasting salt. When I reach his chest, I pause to trace one of the tattoos with my tongue, and he groans.
"Like that?" I ask.
"Yes. Fuck, yes."
Encouraged, I continue lower, kissing and licking across the hard planes of his stomach. His muscles tense under my mouth, and I can feel his cock throbbing against my stomach.
When I reach the line of dark hair below his navel, I hesitate.
"Can I—"
"You can do whatever you want to me," he says, voice strained. "But Matilda, if you're planning to put your mouth on my cock, you should know I won't last long."
The crude words make heat flood through me. "Tell me how."
He sits up abruptly, rearranging us so I'm kneeling between his legs. His cock is hard and thick, and up close like this, I'm struck again by the size of him.
"Start slow," he instructs, his voice rough. "Use your hand first. Feel how hard you make me."
I wrap my fingers around him tentatively. His skin is hot and silky smooth over steel, and when I stroke upward experimentally, he hisses through his teeth.
"Like that?"
"Exactly like that." His hand covers mine, showing me the rhythm he likes. "Tighter. Don't be afraid to grip me."
I follow his guidance, stroking him with more confidence. His head falls back, jaw clenched, and watching him lose control because of something I'm doing is the most erotic thing I've ever experienced.
"Now your mouth," he says. "Just the head at first. Use your tongue. If you don’t enjoy it, stop."
I lean forward and lick tentatively across the tip. The taste is foreign but not unpleasant, and I remember that he was inside me less than thirty minutes ago, so I’m tasting myself too.
"Good girl," he groans. "Now take me in your mouth."
I do, wrapping my lips around the head and sucking gently. His hand comes up to tangle in my hair, holding me still for a moment.
"Fuck, Matilda. Your mouth feels incredible."
The praise makes me bolder. I take him deeper, using my hand on what I can't fit in my mouth, establishing a rhythm that makes his breathing turn ragged.
"That's it. Just like that. You're perfect. So fucking perfect."
I experiment with pressure, with speed, paying attention to what makes him groan, what makes his grip tighten in my hair. And when I feel him start to tense, when his hips start to rock in small thrusts and his thighs begin to tremble, I figure he's close.
"Matilda, I'm going to—you should—"
But I don't pull away. I want this. Want to taste him, want to own his pleasure as much as he does.
He comes with a groan, spilling hot and thick in my mouth. I swallow reflexively, surprised by the intimacy of it, and when I pull back and look up at him, his eyes are dark and possessive.
"Come here," he commands, voice wrecked.
I crawl up his body, and he kisses me deeply, tasting himself on my tongue.
"You're going to ruin me," he murmurs against my mouth.
"Good," I say, echoing his earlier word.
He laughs, low and rough, then rolls us so I'm beneath him again. "My turn."
"But you just—"
"I'm not done with you yet." His hand slides between my legs, finding me wet again. "Not even close."
And then his mouth is on me, and thought becomes impossible.