Chapter 26 Mara #2
“Fuck!” I cry out as the orgasm hits me, my thighs clenching, my hand tightening around his shaft as I come against his tip, hips rolling as the pleasure washes over me in waves.
I hear Ilya’s ragged groan, feel his hips buck in return, and for a moment I think I’m going to feel the hot splash of his cum against my clit as he loses control.
But I don’t. When I come down, every muscle in his body is rigid and he’s shuddering with the effort of staving it off, but he hasn’t come yet.
I let go of him, sliding back as I release him completely… and crawl up his body to hover over his mouth.
“Don’t touch me,” I order, grabbing onto the headboard. “Not with your hands. Keep them above your head and make me come with only your tongue. And then, if you can do that, and you beg sweetly enough, maybe I’ll let you inside me.”
Ilya lets out another ragged groan, his head tilting up as he obeys instantly, his tongue flicking over my clit. “Fuck, you taste so sweet,” he moans, his tongue gently circling my still-pulsing clit.
He knows exactly what to do, and I find myself hoping that I win this game, that he truly does surrender, because I could go my whole life only ever being eaten by this man and never regret it.
He keeps a gentle pressure on my clit until some of the oversensitivity from my first orgasm fades, and then when my hips tilt down toward his mouth, seeking more, he changes it up.
His tongue moves over me in long, slow licks, then faster circles around my clit as I start to ride his mouth. “Fuck,” he gasps when I rise up for a moment, teasing him by keeping myself just out of his reach. “I could come just licking you.”
I moan in response, settling back onto his tongue, feeling my thighs tighten in anticipation of coming a second time. He laps at my clit, circling it, and then just as he feels me start to shudder, he wraps his lips around the pulsing flesh and sucks.
I cry out at the sensation, hips jerking as I start to come for a second time.
He arches up, sealing his mouth against me as he sucks and licks me through my orgasm and I can feel myself drenching his face as I ride his mouth, careless of whether or not I’m smothering him as I grind my hips down onto him.
“Please,” he gasps, when I tilt my hips and slide down, hovering above his cock as I look down at him. “Pozhaluysta. Bozhe, pozhaluysta, pozvol' mne zanyat'sya s toboy seksom. Please, god, let me fuck you, Mara.”
His voice, ragged and desperate as he begs me in Russian and then in English, feels like a victory.
A smile spreads across my face as I reach for him, wrapping my hand around his cock and angling him so that his tip brushes between my folds as I sink down onto him… just enough to get the tip inside.
And then I stop.
Ilya’s whimper of relief turns to a groan as I stop, tilting my hips so that I’m only fucking the tip of his cock. “Oh Christ, Mara,” he breathes. “Fuck, you don’t know what you’re doing, I can’t…”
“You better.” I grin, bouncing lightly on just his cockhead. “If you come without permission, you’ll never get to fuck me again.”
His eyes are wide and desperate, and I’ve never been more turned on in my fucking life.
I can feel how hard it is for him to hold back.
How stiff his cock is inside of me, the straining veins when I tease him, running my fingers over the part of his shaft that’s still exposed.
I slide down another inch, bouncing only on that, before giving him another, and another, until finally, I drop down fully onto his cock, seating myself on him as I take every inch of his length inside of me.
I can see a faint gleam of sweat on his forehead.
“Mara.” My name is a prayer on his lips. “Please. Pozhaluysta, pozvol'te…. Please let me come,” he amends, stuttering between Russian and English. “Mne nuzhno priyti… so fucking bad it hurts, fuck, Mara—”
I slide up in one long stroke, fucking his tip again before I look down at him, a wicked smile on my lips.
“Don’t move your hands,” I order him. “Come for me, Ilya. Come just like this. Now.”
I rock my hips, clenching around his tip, and he lets out a ragged groan of pure pleasure as his abdomen flexes, his hands gripping the pillow above him hard enough to rip, as I feel his cock throb and the first hot spurt of his cum shoot inside of me.
“Fuck! Mara—Chert, ty prosto neveroyatno khorosha, chert, mne eto bylo tak nuzhno, chert, kak zhe priyatno konchit' vnutri tebya—fuck, fuck—”
Ilya curses, Russian spilling from his lips as I drop down fully onto his cock, fucking him in earnest the way I haven’t this entire time as he comes.
I bounce roughly on his spurting cock, overstimulating him as he throws his head back, the tendons in his neck straining as he pulses inside of me again and again.
And as he comes I reach down for the choker—the collar—lifting it to my throat and clasping it behind my neck as I ride him.
The chain feels cool against my overheated flesh, and I see the look in Ilya’s eyes, pure lust and possessiveness as he sees the final sign of my surrender, too. He groans, his hips bucking, and I feel him throb again.
He comes so much and so hard I can feel it dripping from me, sliding down my thighs as I finally drop down once more and grind against him, planting my hands against his chest as I look down at him, victorious.
“You’re mine,” I whisper, and his eyes glitter in the darkness.
“Yes, kotenok,” he growls. “And you’re mine.”
And then he lifts up, grabbing my waist, and rolls us both over as he pins us to the bed with his cock still lodged inside of me.
He’s still hard. His hands grip my wrists, lifting them above my head as he pins them there with one hand, the other coming down to encircle my throat over the collar.
“Now you come when I say so, devochka,” he purrs, his eyes alight with wicked intent as he starts to thrust, long and slow, never giving me the slightest bit of friction on my clit.
It’s the most exquisite torture. He fucks me more slowly than he ever has, his gaze locked on mine the entire time, his patience infinite as he draws out to the tip, fucking me with only that as he looks down at me smirking.
He sinks in slowly, draws out again, torturing me as I mewl and writhe, until finally I glare up at him, panting and breathless, both of us glazed in a fine sheen of sweat.
“Please,” I whisper. “Make me come, Ilya. Please make me come.”
He grins, a feral expression on his face as he tilts his hips forward, still pinning me with his hands on my wrists and throat as he angles himself so that he grinds against my clit with every thrust. He moves faster, harder, stimulating me as he pushes us both toward the edge, and when I’m gasping his name, he hooks one finger under the collar, tugging me up so that my lips are an inch from his.
“Come for me, Mara.”
The orgasm explodes through me, pleasure tightening every muscle and burning through my veins as I clench around him, sobbing out my third climax of the night.
I moan helplessly as spasm after spasm grips me, and Ilya drops me back to the bed, his mouth sealing over mine as he thrusts once more, hard, and throbs inside of me again.
When he finally slides out of me, I can feel the rush of cum that follows, soaking my thighs and the bed. His arm goes around my waist, and he tugs me up next to him as he lies back down, against the length of his body.
“You sleep here now,” he says, his voice even and firm. “You’re mine, Mara, and I’m yours. There’s nowhere you should be at night but in my bed. In our bed.”
I might have argued, until he said that last. A part of me still wants to argue that he should ask, but I’m too exhausted. I know we’re not finished, that he still needs to open up to me, to tell me more about himself, to be honest with me in a way I’d guess he never has been with anyone else.
But for now, I can give in to this, at least.
I close my eyes, and for the first time, I fall asleep in Ilya Sokolov’s arms.
—
I wake to sunlight streaming through unfamiliar windows and the weight of Ilya's arm across my waist. I feel the weight of the collar around my neck, the light pressure of it there, and everything that happened last night comes rushing back.
He chose to surrender to me.
And I chose to give myself to him.
Ilya is still asleep beside me, his face relaxed in a way I've never seen before. In sleep, he looks younger, less dangerous. Almost vulnerable. I study him in the morning light—the sharp line of his jaw, the light blond lashes against his cheeks, the way his hair falls across his forehead.
He's beautiful. And he's a monster. And he's mine.
The thought should terrify me. Instead, it fills me with a strange sense of calm. Like I've finally stopped fighting against a current that was always going to carry me here anyway.
His eyes open, and I push myself up onto my elbow, looking down at him tangled in the white sheets with me. "Tell me the truth," I say quietly.
His gaze fixes on mine, sharp and aware now. I wonder if he ever truly relaxes, or if the vigilance is so ingrained it's become part of who he is.
"About what?" His voice is rough with sleep.
"All of it." I shift to face him more fully. "You told me about the Bratva, about Sergei, about the danger. But you didn't tell me why. Why you are the way you are. Why you need control so desperately. Why the thought of losing me makes you—" I pause, "—feel insane."
He's quiet for a long moment, and I can see the struggle happening behind his eyes. The instinct to deflect, to keep his vulnerabilities hidden warring with something else. The need to be known, truly known, by someone, maybe.
I can understand that. But I need to understand him, too.
"I've never told anyone," he says finally. “I’ve never wanted to.”
“But you’ll tell me?” I ask softly, and after a long moment, he nods.
"Yes." His jaw tightens. "I don't know why, but yes. I want you to understand."