Chapter 7 #3
“What a terrible accident,” I said, my voice barely loud enough for him to hear.
"Eva," he started, but I didn't let him finish.
I kissed him. Not like the vodka-fueled kiss from before, all desperation and confusion.
This was deliberate, chosen, me claiming something I wanted instead of accepting what was given.
His mouth was warm and tasted like the coffee he'd drunk on the drive, and for a moment he was perfectly still, letting me lead.
Then he kissed me back, and it was nothing like before.
His hand came up to cup the side of my neck, thumb resting against my pulse point like he was measuring my heartbeat. The kiss deepened, harder and more passionate than anything we'd shared, but still controlled. Still him, even in this.
When we broke apart, both breathing hard, he rested his forehead against mine.
"You're in charge of the pace," he said, voice rough. "Use your words. Tell me what you want."
Instead of answering with words, I kissed him again—slower this time, searching, testing whether the frost-glass man would melt under enough heat.
He did, but on his terms. The hand on my neck stayed gentle even as the kiss turned hungry.
His other hand braced against the rock face behind me, keeping his body from caging mine even as I pressed closer, wanting more contact.
He pulled back just enough to shrug out of his jacket, spreading it on the sun-warmed rock. The gesture was so careful, so considerate, that it made my chest ache. He was making me a soft place in all this hardness, just like he'd been doing since the day he'd brought me home.
"Sit," he said, and I did, watching as he positioned himself between me and the trail. Privacy handled like a security detail, protecting me even from the possibility of strangers' eyes.
When I arched into him, seeking more contact, he stilled completely.
"More," I breathed into his mouth, the word he'd asked for.
His response was to warm my hands between his, rubbing them gently until the mountain cold was gone.
Then he found the hair tie on my wrist, gathering my hair back from my face with movements that were tender and practiced.
He checked with murmurs and glances, making sure each touch was wanted, each escalation welcomed.
"You don't have to be so careful," I said, though part of me loved that he was.
"Yes, I do," he replied, pressing a kiss to my temple. "You've had enough of men who weren't careful. Who didn't ask. Who took what they wanted."
The truth of it made tears prick my eyes.
Because he was right. Every touch I'd known had been taking—taking my safety, my trust, my sense of my own body.
But this, what Dmitry was doing, was giving.
Giving me control, giving me choice, giving me the chance to want something instead of just enduring it.
I pulled him down for another kiss, and this time when I ground against his thigh, he rumbled low in his chest—want braided with control. The sound went straight through me, pooling low in my belly with undeniable heat.
"Please," I said, the word that had been so hard to say before coming easily now because I meant it. Because I wanted this, wanted him, wanted to feel something other than fear and anger and survival.
He pulled back to look at me, those grey eyes dark with desire but still checking, still making sure.
"Are you certain?" he asked. "Here?"
"Here," I confirmed. "Now. With you."
Something shifted in his expression, decision made.
But even then, even with permission granted and desire obvious between us, he moved with that same careful attention.
Each button of my borrowed flannel undone slowly, watching my face.
Each kiss placed deliberately—jaw, throat, collarbone—mapping permissions with his mouth.
When his hands found skin, they were warm and sure but never assuming. He touched me like I was something precious and dangerous in equal measure, like he was learning a new language written in goosebumps and gasps.
"Beautiful," he murmured against my throat, and I believed him. For the first time in my life, I believed that someone could look at me—all my damage and sharp edges and survival mechanisms—and see something beautiful.
The wind picked up, making the pines whisper secrets around us, but I wasn't cold. Dmitry's body blocked the worst of it, and everywhere he touched felt like fire. Good fire, the kind that warmed instead of burned, that brought life instead of destruction.
"Tell me if anything doesn't feel right," he said, pulling back to look at me. "Any time, any moment. We stop."
"I know," I said, and pulled him back down. "I trust you."
The words hung between us, heavy with meaning.
Because I did trust him. This man who'd kidnapped me, imprisoned me, made me stand in corners and take cold showers.
This man who'd also fed me, protected me, sat on my floor teaching me to breathe through nightmares. Somehow, impossibly, I trusted him.
He knelt on the jacket he'd spread for me, taking my wrist in his hand like it was something precious. The kiss he pressed to the pulse point was soft, reverent, a question and promise all at once.
"Let me take care of you," he said against my skin, and the words sent shivers through me that had nothing to do with the mountain air.
His mouth traced a path down my forearm, each kiss deliberate and unhurried.
When he reached the inside of my elbow, he paused, looking up at me through those thick lashes, waiting for permission to continue.
I nodded, unable to form words, and he smiled—a real smile, not his usual controlled expression.
Lower still, his lips finding my hipbone through the thin fabric of the leggings I'd stolen from his drawer.
The contact was barely there, just heat and pressure, but it made me gasp.
He hummed against my skin, pleased with the response, and his hands came up to rest on my thighs.
Not moving, just holding, letting me get used to the weight of them.
His hands were patient as they worked, easing the leggings down to expose my wet, swollen pussy to the mountain air. The cold hit my bare cunt for just a moment before his hot palms were there, warming my thighs, thumbs tracing circles dangerously close to where I throbbed for him.
He started with his fingers, one thick digit sliding through my slick folds, making me gasp as he found my clit.
He circled it slowly, building pressure, before dipping lower to tease my entrance.
When he finally pushed a finger inside me, I clenched around him, desperate for more.
He added a second finger, stretching me deliciously, his thumb still working my clit as he pumped into me with deliberate strokes.
“Tell me,” he growled, “tell me exactly what you want. Tell me what you want me to do with my mouth.”
"Dmitry," I breathed, my hands fisting in his jacket beneath me. "Fuck me with your mouth," I begged, past shame, past anything but the ache between my legs. "Please, eat my pussy."
He gave it to me. His hot tongue replaced his fingers, licking a long stripe from my entrance to my clit before sucking the sensitive bud between his lips.
My hips bucked wildly, but his strong hands pinned me down, spreading my thighs wider as he devoured me.
His tongue circled my clit before flicking rapidly across it, sending electric jolts through my core.
I moaned, "Fuck, yes!" loud enough that it echoed off the rocks. His beard scraped deliciously against my inner thighs as he lapped at my dripping center, alternating between broad strokes and pointed precision that had me seeing stars.
He worked me relentlessly, sucking my clit while his fingers curled inside me, finding that spot that made me scream.
When he thrust his tongue into my soaking entrance, fucking me with it while his nose nudged my clit, I felt myself tightening, approaching climax.
Each time I got close, he'd slow down, denying me release, until I was sobbing, my pussy clenching desperately around nothing, my clit so swollen and sensitive that even the mountain breeze made me whimper.
"Please," I sobbed, my hands finding his hair, holding on like he was the only solid thing in a world gone liquid. "I can't—it's too much—"
"You can," he murmured against me, the vibration of his voice adding another layer of sensation. "Let go, little one. I've got you."
He returned his attention to my clit then, kissing and licking with an intensity that was almost too much. My body bowed off the rock, every muscle tensing as the pressure built to something unbearable. He didn't let up, didn't ease off, just held me steady and pushed me higher until—
I shattered.
The orgasm hit sharp and bright, whiting out my vision and stealing my voice.
I might have screamed—probably did—the sound throwing itself into the trees and coming back softer, like the mountain was cradling my pleasure.
He held me through it, his mouth gentling but not stopping, drawing out the aftershocks until I was shaking so hard I couldn't control it.
When I finally came back to myself, he was there, cheek resting against my belly, breathing with me while I remembered how to exist in a body that felt completely remade. His hands stroked my thighs, soothing now instead of inciting, bringing me back to earth by degrees.
I laughed—a choked, relieved sound I didn't recognize as my own. It bubbled up from somewhere deep, some well of feeling I'd thought had dried up years ago. He lifted his head to look at me, and his face was soft in a way I'd never seen, like something in him had unlocked too.
“I was so naughty!” I said. I couldn’t believe how filthy my mouth had been.
“A dirty girl,” he said, grinning. “Just the way I like it.”
He stood, pulling me up with him, and kissed me. I could taste myself on him, salt and want. The kiss was different now—not desperate or searching, but certain. Like we'd answered a question neither of us had known how to ask.
When he pulled back, he looked at me with eyes that held no more walls, no more careful distance. Just want and possession and something that might have been love if either of us knew what that looked like.
"You're mine," he said, and it wasn't a question or a demand. It was a statement of fact, simple as gravity.
"I'm yours," I agreed, the words coming from that same deep well as the laughter. Then, because it felt right, because it felt true, because he'd earned it with every careful touch and patient moment: "Daddy."
Something flared in his eyes—surprise, desire, possessiveness all tangled together. He pulled me against him, holding me like I might disappear if he let go.
"Say it again," he commanded, but there was a plea underneath it.
"Daddy," I repeated, tasting the word, finding it fit perfectly in my mouth. "My Daddy."
He kissed my temple then, soft and reverent, and I felt something I hadn't experienced in so long I'd forgotten its name. It took me a moment to recognize it, this lightness in my chest, this absence of fear and anger and constant calculation.
I was happy.
For the first time in years—maybe for the first time ever—I was actually, truly happy. Standing on a mountain with a man who'd kidnapped me and saved me in equal measure, calling him Daddy like it was the most natural thing in the world, feeling my body still humming from pleasure he'd given me.
The wind picked up again, reminding us that we were still on a mountain in winter, still exposed despite the privacy of our little shelf. He helped me dress with the same care he'd used to undress me, making sure I was warm, comfortable, ready for the descent.
"We should head back," he said, but his hand found mine, fingers interlacing like they belonged that way.
"Okay," I said, then squeezed his hand. "Thank you."
"For what?"
For everything. For teaching me to breathe. For showing me that careful could be a form of caring. For giving me the word that made everything make sense.
"For bringing me somewhere special," I said instead.