17. Damir #2
I drag my mouth from one nipple to the other, pulling the dress lower until both tits are bare, the silk trapped around her waist. She squirms, half-embarrassed, half-desperate, and I reward both by sliding one finger inside her.
Her body locks.
“Easy,” I murmur against her breast.
“I hate that word.”
“I know.”
I move my finger slowly, letting her take the fullness, watching her face as her body adjusts. Her eyes squeeze shut. Her teeth catch her lower lip.
I stop.
Her eyes open immediately. “What?”
“Don’t bite your lip.”
“Are you seriously giving me instructions during this?”
“Yes.”
“You are—”
I curl my finger inside her, and her sentence breaks apart.
“—impossible,” she finishes weakly.
I kiss the inside of her breast. “You have said.”
I add my thumb to her clit and begin the rhythm I learned in the study. Slow circles. Deep strokes. Enough pressure to build her, not enough to give her release too quickly.
She tries to stay angry.
I watch her fail.
Her thighs tremble on either side of my hips. Her breath comes in uneven little gasps. Her hands, still pinned above her head, flex against mine, not trying to escape now, but holding on.
“Damir,” she whispers.
I lift my head. There’s a question in her face.
Not about pleasure. About what comes after.
I see the fear she’s trying to hide. She doesn’t know how this will feel, how much it will hurt, whether desire survives the moment a man stops using fingers and starts claiming with his cock.
I lower my mouth to hers. The kiss is slower this time. Deeper. A promise I have no right to make and no intention of breaking.
“I will be careful,” I say.
Her eyes search mine. “I don’t know if I believe you.”
“Good.”
Her brow furrows. “Good?”
“Then believe what you feel.”
Her lips part, but I move down her body before she can answer, pressing kisses along her jaw, her throat, the valley between her breasts, her stomach. The silk bunches under my hands as I push the dress higher. She goes still when she realizes where I’m going.
“Damir.”
I settle between her thighs.
She props herself up on her elbows, eyes wide. “What are you doing?”
I look up at her. “Tasting my wife.”
Her face goes red. “You can’t just say things like that.”
“I just did.”
Then I put my mouth on her cunt, and she collapses back onto the bed with a broken cry.
Christ.
She is sweet. Wet, hot, already swollen from my fingers. I lick through her slowly at first, parting her with my tongue, tasting the slick heat of her while her hands fly into my hair. She doesn’t push me away. She pulls me closer, then seems horrified by herself and tries to loosen her grip.
I catch her thigh and hold it open. “Don’t hide yourself from me,” I say again, this time against her clit. The vibration of my voice makes her jerk.
I smile. Then I suck her clit into my mouth, and she nearly comes off the bed.
“Damir.”
I keep her there with one arm across her hips and take my time ruining her.
Tongue flat. Then pointed. Slow circles.
A firmer suck that makes her cry out and press her heel into the mattress.
One finger slides back inside her, then another, careful but deep, curling until I find the place that made her go silent in the study.
There. Her whole body tightens.
I do it again. Her thighs shake around my shoulders.
“Please,” she gasps.
I lift my mouth just enough to speak. “Please what?”
She makes a furious sound. “Don’t make me say it.”
I press my thumb lightly over her clit instead of my mouth.
She curses.
I nearly laugh. “Say it.”
Her breathing is wild now, her cheeks flushed, breasts bare and rising with each pant, silk tangled around her hips. She looks wrecked. She looks alive.
She looks like mine.
“Make me come,” she whispers.
I lower my mouth again.
This time, I don’t tease. I suck her clit and fuck her with my fingers until her hips roll helplessly against my mouth, until her hands twist in my hair, until her voice breaks into soft, shocked cries that grow higher and closer together.
Her body begins to clench around my fingers, wet and tight, and I feel the orgasm gather in her before she understands there is no stopping it.
“That’s it,” I murmur. “Give it to me.”
She comes hard. Her back arches, thighs locking around my shoulders, hands pulling at my hair while pleasure takes her in waves. I keep my mouth on her through the first sharp pulse, then the next, gentling only when she starts to shake too much and her breath becomes thin.
When I lift my head, she’s staring at the ceiling like it has personally betrayed her.
I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand.
She turns her head and sees. Her eyes darken.
I rise over her. She reaches for me before I touch her, hands going to my belt with a confidence that lasts exactly three seconds before the buckle defeats her.
I let her struggle.
Her eyes narrow. “Don’t look amused.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“A little.”
“I hate your belt.”
“It has done nothing to deserve that.”
“It’s in my way.”
That kills the last of my restraint. I take over, unfastening the belt, opening my trousers, freeing my cock. Her gaze drops immediately. Then stays there.
Her face changes.
Heat, curiosity, fear. All of it at once. I’m not small, and she’s not experienced enough to hide the thought.
I brace one hand beside her head and take myself in the other, stroking once to ease the ache. Her throat moves.
“You look nervous,” I say.
“I’m considering logistics.”
Despite everything, a laugh tears out of me.
She blinks, offended. “This isn’t funny.”
“No,” I say, still smiling against her mouth as I kiss her. “It’s not.”
Her hands settle on my shoulders, then slide down my chest, as if she needs to remind herself I am real. When her fingers reach the scar near my ribs, she pauses.
I catch her hand and kiss her palm, and her expression shifts. I guide her hand above her head, then spread her thighs wider with my knee. My cock drags through the wetness between her legs, brushing her clit, and she gasps sharply.
I do it again.
Her hips lift. “Careful,” she whispers.
“I promised.”
The head of my cock presses against her entrance.
Her body tenses immediately.
I stop.
Her eyes fly to mine, wide and uncertain.
“Breathe,” I say.
“I am breathing.”
“No. You are preparing for war.”
“Same thing in this family.”
I kiss her. She laughs once into my mouth, breathless and scared, and that small sound lets her body soften just enough.
I push in slowly. Only an inch.
She goes still beneath me.
She’s so fucking tight I have to close my eyes for a second, because every instinct in my body tells me to drive forward and bury myself in her completely. I don’t. I hold myself there, jaw locked, arm shaking with the effort of restraint.
Sofia’s nails dig into my shoulder. It hurts.
Fuck yes. The pain keeps me sane.
“You’re too big,” she whispers.
“You can take me.”
“That sounds like male optimism.”
“It’s fact.”
She huffs a breath that might be a laugh if she were not trembling.
I kiss her forehead. Then her mouth. Then the corner of her jaw.
I move another inch. Her breath catches in pain this time.
I stop again. “Look at me.”
She does. Her eyes are bright, furious and vulnerable in a way that makes something in my chest tighten harder than desire ever has.
“I will stop,” I say. “If you say it, I stop.”
She swallows. Then her legs tighten around my hips. “No.”
“Sofia.”
“No,” she says again, voice shaking but clear. “I want this. I just also want to complain.”
I laugh low against her throat. “My difficult wife.”
“My terrifying husband.”
I kiss her again and push deeper, slow and careful. The resistance gives little by little, her body stretching around me, wet and hot and impossibly tight. She whimpers into my mouth, then bites my shoulder when the last inch becomes too much.
I let her.