NINE #2
“Patience,” he murmurs, his lips brushing my ear.
He releases my hair to wrap his fingers around my throat; his grip is just tight enough to make my pulse stutter.
“Good things come to those who wait.” His voice is a dark rasp as he pulls his fingers free.
Before I can even process the loss, he’s removing his jeans and boxers.
I turn slightly to watch him as he frees his cock, slicking it up — the thick head’s already glistening with pre-cum.
I want to drop to my knees, take him deep, but he grips my hip with a bruising force, spinning me back to face the wall.
His head presses against my entrance, then — God — he thrusts inside in one brutal stroke, burying himself to the hilt.
“Fuck!” I cry out as he bottoms out, his hips flush against my arse, the pain quickly twisting into pleasure as my body adjusts around him. Then he pulls out and slams back in with a relentless force, each thrust forcing me harder against the wall.
“God, Caiden—” he groans, his hand returning and squeezing my throat hard enough to make my cock twitch.
His lips find my neck, biting, sucking, and marking me.
I can’t even form words; all I can do is moan.
My body moves in time with his; my arse slaps against his thighs with every thrust, releasing my desperate whimpers and his grunts of effort under the brutal force of his fucking into me.
“Don’t you dare come yet,” he snarls, his grip on my throat tightening as he pounds into me harder. I whine; my balls draw up, my cock leaks against the wall. I’m so close, teetering on the edge, but the way he chokes me, the way his cock fills me so completely— I’ll do anything he tells me to.
His name falls from my lips, over and over, as he fucks me into the wall, his cock swelling inside me. “Please, Ari, I can’t—” I beg, my voice broken, and his thrusts turning into something unrelenting.
I don’t know how much more I can take. My entire body is strung tight, my orgasm just out of reach.
“Now, come for me, detka.” The command shatters me; I stroke myself fast as my orgasm rips through me, my cock spurting against the wall as I clench around him, milking his release.
His grip on my throat tightens; his cock swelling as he buries himself deep and holds there, groaning and filling me, riding his climax out as his hips stutter against my arse.
Then he presses a filthy kiss to the side of my neck.
We don’t make it back to bed; we lie tangled together on the rug, the light outside fading toward evening. Ari’s fingers trace idle patterns on my arm, and I watch the fire and listen to his breathing.
“You came back,” he says quietly. I turn my head and meet his eyes.
“Are you going to keep saying that?”
He studies me for a second, but doesn’t say anything; he just presses his forehead to mine.
Ari is still stretched out beside me, one arm flung over my stomach, his fingers warm and idle against my skin. He’s half-awake, his eyes heavy, his mouth soft, and the sharp edges filed down by exhaustion and the simple fact of being held.
I should leave it there, but I don’t. “Hang on,” I say quietly.
He hums, eyes still closed. “If this involves effort, I will complain.”
“It involves a book.” That gets his attention; one eye opens, then the other as I reach for my bag by the door. When I pull the poetry book out, he sits up slightly, resting on his elbows.
“You kept it,” he says in surprise.
“Yeah.” I lay back and open it to a page I know by heart now. My pulse kicks in because this feels more exposing than taking my clothes off ever did.
Then I read the poem on page seventy in Russian, carefully. I don’t rush or translate it. The words feel heavier in my mouth than they used to, as if they mean something new now instead of just sounding beautiful. I don’t rush the rhythm, and I let the lines breathe the way they should.
When I finish, Ari doesn’t say anything for a moment. Then, quietly, he says, “You remembered.”
“I remembered,” I tell him, before I can stop myself. He looks at me then, really looks. Not in the teasing or smug way he usually does. It’s something much softer.
“You learned to read my favourite poem in Russian,” he says slowly.
“Seemed important.” I shrug, because if I don’t, I might say something stupid.
A corner of his mouth lifts. “Well,” he says, voice low, almost amused, “you must really love me.” I don’t answer with words; I kiss him instead. “Such a dangerous thing to do,” he murmurs.
“Reading poetry?”
“Remembering things about me,” he says. “That’s how people get ideas.”
“Yeah?” I ask. “What kind?” He leans in and presses his forehead to mine.
“Domestic ones,” he says, and I laugh quietly, because that’s safer than admitting what that word does to me.
Ari doesn’t move for a bit after that, and neither do I.
We’re still stretched out on the rug, the fire ticking softly beside us, the book still in my hands.
Then he gets up, reaches out, and pulls me to my feet. “Come on,” he says. “Bed.”
I glance at the fire. “We just got horizontal.”
“Yes,” he agrees. “And now I want to be horizontal comfortably.”
“Bossy,” I mutter, letting him drag me up half-laughing, stumbling across the floor to the bed. He sits with his back against the headboard, legs stretched out, and taps the space between them. I slide in between his legs, resting my back against his chest.
“Give me that,” he says, nodding at the book.
I hand it over with exaggerated caution. “If this ends with you critiquing my accent, I’m leaving.”
He flips through the pages without looking at me.
“You won’t leave.” He finds the place quickly — too quickly — and starts reading in English.
He reads like he’s dismantling something delicate to see how it works, his voice low and steady, the meaning intact but missing the edge that makes it bite.
I listen for about ten seconds before I reach up and shut the book.
“No.”
“No?” he asks, looking down at me, his eyebrow lifting.
“Not like that,” I say. “You sound like you’re reading a warning label. Read it in Russian.”
“You’re sure you want to hear me do poetry in bed?” His mouth curves slowly, and he looks dangerous and pleased at the same time.
“Yes.”
“You’re making choices tonight.” He opens the book again.
I notice then when he speaks in Russian, it changes his voice — lowers it, roughens the edges, gives the words gravel instead of polish.
The consonants scrape, the vowels stretch, and his chest vibrates under my back with each line.
I don’t need to understand it to feel every word of it.
He finishes and closes the book quietly. “That is significantly better,” I tell him.
He snorts. “Of course you’d say that.”
“I’m right,” I add.
“You’re biased.”
“So are you.” His arms tighten suddenly, pulling me in against his chest harder, his chin dropping to my shoulder.
“You know,” he murmurs, “this is the place I realised.”
I tilt my head. “Realised what?”
“That I was already in love with you.”
“Well,” I say quietly, “excellent venue choice.”
He hums, amused, and kisses the side of my head. “Your turn.”
“My turn?”
“Read me another,” he says, nudging the book back toward me.
“In English?” I reply, raising a brow.
“No, start there,” he says, pointing to another poem.
I read it carefully in Russian — I think — keeping my tone dry on purpose and daring him to complain.
When I finish, I close the book and look up at him.
He pulls me into a proper hug, his arms wrapping around me like it’s instinctive.
As if he’s already done this a thousand times in his head.
I go easily, pressing my cheek into the crook of his neck.
He sets the book aside, switches off the lamp, and drags the covers up with his foot.
His mouth brushes my temple. “Next time,” he mutters, already half asleep, “I’m making you read the angry one.”
“There is no angry one.”
“Everything you say in Russian sounds angry,” he says, smug even half-unconscious.
“Mudak,” Asshole, I laugh quietly and settle in.