Chapter 25 - Yulia #2
He doesn’t hesitate. “I love you, Yulia. I love you so fucking much it ruins me.”
Something inside me snaps.
I surge forward and crash my mouth onto his like it’s the only way to survive the ache inside me. There’s no hesitance, no soft beginning—just heat and hunger and the desperate crush of two people who almost lost their chance.
His hands slide into my hair, anchoring me like he’s terrified I’ll vanish again. I press closer, straddling his thighs, careful of his healing shoulder but greedy for the feel of him. I need his skin under mine. I need him everywhere.
And this time, I’m not holding back.
“I need you,” I breathe against his mouth. “Now.”
He groans, the sound vibrating through me. “Are you sure? The baby—”
“Is fine,” I assure him. “We’re both fine. And I need this. Need you.”
I step back just enough to pull my dress over my head, stripping it off within seconds. His eyes darken as they roam over my body, taking in the changes—my fuller breasts, the slight curve of my stomach.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs, reaching for me.
But I shake my head, dropping to my knees in front of him. “Let me.”
My hands go to his belt, unbuckling it slowly, deliberately. I watch his face as I unzip his pants, as I pull them down along with his boxers. His breath hitches when I take his cock in my hand, hard and heavy against my palm.
“Yulia,” he warns, voice strained. “You don’t have to—”
I silence him by taking him slow into my mouth, tasting the heat of him, the salt on his skin. The groan that rips from his throat is raw—almost shocked—and it thrills something deep in me.
He’s big, and I take my time adjusting, letting instinct take over. I swirl my tongue along the underside, then hollow my cheeks and suck, watching the way his hands fist in the sheets, the muscles in his thighs tensing like he’s holding himself back from bucking.
I’ve never done this before—but I want to. I want to unravel him.
He lets out a strangled curse, hips twitching as I take him deeper, letting the rhythm settle into something steady and intentional. I draw back with a teasing lick, then do it again—watching him tremble under my control.
Power hums through me like a live wire.
This man could break anyone with a flick of his wrist. And right now? He’s breaking for me.
His hand tangles in my hair, not forcing, just anchoring. There’s a reverence in the way he touches me, like he can’t believe I’m real. Like I’m the only thing in the world that matters.
I press my tongue flat and glide it along his length, then take him deep enough that I feel him twitch against the back of my throat. He lets out a strangled gasp, and I feel fucking proud. I’m doing this to him.
He lets out a broken sound, hips lifting slightly. “Yulia—fuck—I’m gonna—”
That’s when he tugs me up with a growl, his grip urgent but gentle, dragging me off his cock before he loses control completely.
But I’m not done.
I push him back onto the bed, breathless and smiling, sliding my dress up over my thighs.
“You’re not the only one who’s starving,” I murmur, voice thick with want, already climbing on top of him.
His hands grip my hips, steadying me as I position myself above him. Our eyes lock as I lower myself slowly, taking him inch by inch until he fills me completely. The stretch? It’s not enough.
I want him to burn.
“God,” he groans, forehead pressed to mine. “You feel like heaven.”
“I love you,” I whisper against his lips, the words feeling more natural with each repetition. “I love you so much.”
I shift forward on his lap, letting his cock slide deeper inside me, inch by inch, until I’m seated fully—stretched, filled, utterly wrecked in the best possible way. My breath catches as I adjust, my hands braced against his chest, his heart thudding wildly beneath my palms.
And then I move.
Slow at first. A roll of my hips, a grind that makes us both gasp. The friction is divine—his cock thick and hard inside me, dragging along every nerve ending as I rise and sink, again and again, building a rhythm that’s all mine.
His hands are everywhere—cupping my breasts, thumbs brushing over my nipples until they pebble under his touch. One hand slides down my spine, anchoring me to him. The other grips my ass, guiding my movement, but letting me lead.
I lean back slightly, arching my spine, using the angle to take him even deeper. He groans my name, guttural and reverent, like a man on the edge of worship.
“You feel—fuck—Yulia—” His hands grip harder, but he doesn’t stop me. Doesn’t try to take control. He lets me ride him. Wants me to.
I set a faster pace, thighs burning, dress bunched around my waist, sweat glistening at the base of my throat. I can feel him everywhere—his mouth on my collarbone, his tongue tasting the hollow of my neck, the stubble on his jaw scraping the soft swell of my breast.
I slide one hand between us, brushing his lower stomach, then lower, finding where we’re joined, circling my clit as I ride him.
It’s too much—but I want more.
His eyes lock with mine, dark and full of fire. “You’re going to kill me,” he rasps.
I smile through the haze of heat. “You’ll die happy.”
And I keep going, rising and falling, clenching around him, moaning softly as I bring us both closer with every roll of my hips.
He’s panting now, barely holding on. “Yulia—Jesus—if you keep going—”
But I don’t stop.
Not yet.
Not until I’ve taken everything from him.
Because I want him to remember this. Me.
And when he flips me over a moment later, growling like a man possessed, I know I’ve won.
I made the king lose control.
“Mine,” he says, voice rough as he slides back into me. “Say it.”
“Yours,” I gasp as he begins to move, harder now, deeper. “Always yours.”
The pace he sets is relentless, each thrust deeper, harder—like he’s trying to bury himself in every part of me.
I wrap my legs around his waist, heel digging into the small of his back, urging him closer. Every time he drives into me, it hits that perfect spot deep inside—over and over, until I’m panting his name against his throat, nails clawing at his shoulders.
The pleasure builds low in my belly, a molten heat coiling tighter with every slam of his hips. It spreads—through my thighs, my spine, the tips of my breasts, where his chest brushes against mine with every ragged breath.
I can’t breathe. I don’t want to breathe.
His mouth finds mine again—rough, needy—then drags down my neck, biting the soft spot below my ear. “You feel so fucking good,” he groans, voice ragged. “Tight… wet… mine.”
The word breaks something open inside me. Because I am his. And he’s mine.
My hands cup his face, forcing him to look at me. “Don’t stop.”
His jaw clenches as he slams into me again, harder now. “Not planning to.”
I shatter a moment later.
The orgasm rips through me like a wave—violent, unstoppable. It starts at my core, spreads to my fingertips, my toes, and explodes behind my eyes like fireworks in the dark. My body clenches around him, a desperate, greedy pulse that drags him under with me.
He groans my name, curses low and filthy—and then he’s gone too, his hips jerking as he spills inside me, still thrusting through it, chasing every last pulse of release until we’re both wrecked.
He collapses onto his elbows above me, forehead pressed to mine, both of us gasping, trembling, ruined.
And yet somehow... more whole than we’ve ever been.
We stay like that, connected, breathing hard, for what feels like forever. His weight is a comfort, grounding me as I float in the aftermath of pleasure. When he finally rolls to the side, he takes me with him, tucking me against his good shoulder.
“Stay with me,” he murmurs into my hair, echoing words he’s said before but with new meaning now. “I love you.”
I press a kiss to his chest, right over his heart. “Always,” I promise. “This is where I belong. With you.”