17. Damir #3
I hold still when I’m finally inside her completely, all of me, buried deep in her. Her body clenches around me in small, uncertain pulses, and I have to breathe like a man being tortured.
She’s shaking. So am I, though she will never know if I can help it.
“Damir,” she whispers.
I lift my head. There are tears at the corners of her eyes, unshed. I brush one away with my thumb before it can fall.
Her gaze flickers with surprise. “Don’t,” she says softly.
“Don’t what?”
“Become gentle now. It’s confusing.”
I kiss her mouth. “I am always confusing.”
“That is true.”
I move my hips slightly, and her breath stops.
I stop too. “Pain?”
She considers lying. I see it.
Then she sighs. “Less.”
“Good.”
I move again, slow and shallow, letting her body learn me. Her fingers grip my arms. Her thighs tremble around my hips. For the first few strokes, her face stays tense, her breathing uneven.
Then something changes.
A small gasp. Not pain.
I know the difference.
I angle my hips and do it again. Her eyes widen.
There.
The pleasure returns slowly, like a flame catching at the edge of wet paper.
I keep the pace controlled, each thrust deep but careful, grinding against her clit when I’m fully inside.
Her body begins to soften under mine. Her nails loosen.
Her thighs part wider. The sounds she makes change from startled little breaths to something lower, warmer, more helpless.
I lower my hand between us and find her clit with my thumb.
She jerks beneath me. “Oh.”
That sound. I will hear it in my sleep if I ever sleep again.
I move inside her and circle her clit at the same time, watching pleasure take over her face. The fear doesn’t vanish completely. Neither does the tenderness. But want rises above both, fierce and stunned.
“You feel that?” I ask.
She nods quickly, then seems annoyed at herself for obeying. “Yes.”
“Good.”
I thrust deeper. Her back arches, and my control thins.
She is wet around me now, no longer resisting each stroke, her body gripping my cock with heat that makes my vision darken at the edges.
I kiss her breast, then take one nipple into my mouth as I fuck her slowly, sucking and rolling her clit under my thumb until her breath turns frantic again.
“Damir,” she gasps. “I think—”
“I know.”
“No, I—”
“I know, wife.”
The word breaks something in her. Her cunt clenches around me hard. I groan against her breast.
“Again,” I say, and circle her clit faster.
She falls apart beneath me.
This orgasm is different. Her whole body curls into mine, arms locking around my shoulders, thighs tightening at my hips as she comes around my cock for the first time.
She cries out into my neck, muffling the sound against my skin, and the tight, wet pulses of her body drag me to the edge so fast I nearly lose all discipline.
I fuck her through it. Slow, deep strokes until she’s trembling and boneless beneath me, whispering my name like she hates that it’s the only word left.
Then I let go. I bury my face in her neck, thrust once, twice, and come hard inside her, my body locking over hers as release burns through me with brutal force.
For a few seconds, I can’t think. Can’t move.
Can’t do anything but feel her beneath me, around me, holding me as if she has forgotten she’s supposed to be angry.
The room is silent except for the sea and our breathing. I stay inside her. Her fingers drift slowly over my back, touching scars, then skin, then the bandage on my arm.
“You’re heavy,” she whispers.
I lift some of my weight off her.
“I didn’t say move,” she mutters.
Something in my chest goes still. Then I lower myself carefully beside her and pull her with me, keeping one arm around her waist. She winces slightly when I slip out of her, and I feel the small movement like a strike against my ribs.
“Sore?” I ask.
She opens one eye. “Are you asking as my husband or as a smug man seeking praise?”
“Yes.”
She gives me a tired glare.
I almost smile.
Almost.
Then her gaze shifts past me to the dress tangled around her hips. Elena’s old dress, torn down the front, damp from my mouth and wrinkled beneath Sofia’s body. For one second, the past tries to enter the room again.
Sofia notices. Her expression changes.
“What?” she asks.
I should tell her.
Not everything. Not yet.
But something.
Instead, I pull the blanket over her bare shoulder and kiss her forehead before I can think better of it. “Sleep,” I say.
She studies me, not fooled. Never fooled enough. “You promised answers too, you know.”
“I promised to come to your room.”
Her eyes narrow. “Convenient wording.”
“I like precision.”
“You are impossible.”
“Yes.”
But her voice is softer now.
Sleep begins pulling at her before she can fight it, exhaustion, pleasure, fear, and the violent shape of the day finally catching her. Her head rests against my chest. My ring is still tied to her finger, pressed between us, absurd and heavy.
I look down at it. Then at her.
My wife.
My fire.
My mistake.
My choice.
Outside, the sea strikes the cliff again and again.
For the first time in two nights, I close my eyes.