19. Sofia #3
“You’re staring,” he says.
“It’s hard not to. You’re waving it around like a threat.”
His mouth curves. “A threat?”
“A very large one.”
He laughs under his breath, and the sound makes my chest tighten.
Then he steps closer, pressing the head of his cock against me, and I gasp.
He drags it through my wetness slowly, teasing my clit with the blunt, hot weight of him.
My body jerks every time he nudges that sensitive place, and he does it again, because he is merciless.
“Damir.”
“Yes?”
“Stop teasing.”
His eyes lift to mine. “You are sore.”
“I’m aware.”
“I should be careful.”
“You can be careful inside me.”
His expression changes.
The words surprise me too, but I don’t take them back.
His hand tightens on my thigh. “Careful,” he says, voice rough, “is not what you are asking for.”
“No,” I admit.
For one second, there’s only his breathing and mine.
Then he pushes inside me. Slow at first, because despite everything, he is careful.
The head of his cock stretches me open, and I grab his shoulders, nails digging into his shirt.
The burn is there, deep and sharp for a moment, but so is the pleasure.
My body remembers him now, opens for him now, and the realization makes something hot and helpless twist in me.
He fills me inch by inch. I feel every bit of him. Every thick, slow push. Every pause when he lets my body take him. By the time he’s fully inside me, I’m shaking.
He is too. I can feel it in the tension of his arms, the way his jaw locks, the way his forehead lowers briefly to mine.
“You feel too good,” he says.
It’s not smooth. Not controlled. It sounds dragged out of him.
That does something terrible to my heart.
Then he starts moving. The first thrust knocks the breath from me.
The second makes my breasts bounce between us.
By the third, I’m clinging to him, legs locked around his hips, back pressed against the wall while he fucks me standing up, holding me as if I weigh nothing.
His hands grip my ass, lifting me into each deep thrust, and every stroke drives his cock so far inside me I feel it everywhere.
There’s no room to think. No room for anger, shame, Elena, escape, anything.
Only Damir.
His mouth on my throat. His breath harsh against my ear. His cock stretching me, filling me, fucking me with a rhythm that grows rougher each time I moan.
My tits bounce with every thrust, and he lowers his head to catch one nipple in his mouth, sucking hard as he drives into me. The sensation makes me cry out, too loud, but I can’t care. His tongue circles my nipple, teeth grazing, while his hips keep moving, hard and deep, pinning me to the wall.
“You are loud tonight,” he says against my breast.
“Whose fault is that?”
He thrusts harder.
Mine, apparently.
I gasp, nails scraping down his back. His mouth leaves my breast, and he kisses me, rough and open, swallowing the helpless sounds spilling out of me. His hand shifts between us, thumb finding my clit again, and my whole body jolts.
“Damir.”
“There,” he says. “Come for me.”
“I can’t already—”
“You can.”
His thumb rubs my clit in tight circles while his cock drives into me, thick and relentless. I can feel myself getting wetter around him, feel the slick slide of his thrusts, hear the obscene sounds our bodies make together. It should embarrass me.
It does. It also makes me hotter.
I bury my face against his neck, biting down on his shoulder to muffle my cry.
He groans. “Again,” he orders.
So I bite him again.
He fucks me harder for it.
The pleasure spirals, my thighs trembling around his waist, my breasts pressed against his chest, my clit pulsing under his thumb.
I’m trapped between the wall and his body, completely held, completely filled, and the feeling of having nowhere to go except into the pleasure breaks something open in me.
“I’m going to—”
“I know.”
“Stop saying that.”
“No.”
Then he angles his hips and hits something deep inside me that makes the room disappear.
I come hard. My body locks around him, cunt clenching around his cock in tight, wet pulses as the orgasm tears through me.
I cry out against his neck, fingers gripping his shoulders, legs shaking around his waist while he keeps fucking me through it, dragging the pleasure out until I’m trembling and breathless and completely useless in his arms.
He lasts only a few strokes longer.
His rhythm breaks. His hands tighten on my ass, and he thrusts deep, burying himself inside me as he comes with a rough sound against my throat. I feel him pulse inside me, hot and deep, and the sensation sends one last shudder through my body.
For several seconds, neither of us moves. We’re both breathing hard. His forehead rests near my shoulder. My back is still against the wall. My dress is open, my tits bare, my legs wrapped weakly around him, his cock still inside me. The room smells like sex, leather, smoke, and heat.
I should feel victorious, because this began as anger.
I don’t. I feel shaken.
Too full. Too aware.
Damir lifts his head first. His eyes are dark and satisfied, but there’s something else there too, something watchful and possessive that makes my pulse stumble all over again. He lowers me slowly to my feet, keeping one hand at my waist until my legs remember how to work.
They barely do.
His cock slips out of me, and I bite back a small sound.
His hand moves to my chin, tilting my face up.
I shouldn’t say it now. I planned to say it coldly. Strategically. With all my clothes intact and my dignity somewhere nearby. Instead, I’m half-naked against the wall, flushed and sore, with his come sliding down my inner thigh and my heart doing stupid, dangerous things in my chest.
Maybe that’s why I say it.
Maybe I want to ruin the look in his eyes before it ruins me.
“I know whose dresses I’ve been wearing.”