Kira #2
A low sound rumbles in his chest and then his hands are under my thighs, yanking me forward until my ass is right at the edge of the granite. My legs hook automatically around his waist; the apron I’m still wearing bunches up between us, ridiculous and forgotten.
He doesn’t bother taking it off.
Doesn’t bother taking anything off properly.
One hand fists the front of my dress and hauls it up to my waist in a single rough motion. Cool air hits the damp cotton between my thighs and I gasp. His knuckles brush me through the fabric and I jerk so hard I almost slip from the counter.
“Fuck,” he breathes. The word is wrecked. “You’re already soaked.”
Heat floods my face, but I don’t look away. “You kissed me. What did you expect?”
His laugh is dark, jagged. “I expected you to slap me. Not…” His fingers hook into the side of my panties and tug. The elastic snaps against my hip. “…this.”
The scrap of fabric is dragged down my legs and tossed somewhere behind him. I don’t care where. I only care that his hand is back between my thighs now. Two fingers slide through slick folds, slow and filthy. Anton watching my face the entire time like he’s memorizing every response.
“Anton—”
“Say it again.” His thumb circles my clit once, hard. My hips jerk. “Tell me it’s my failure.”
I swallow. My voice comes out thin, trembling. “It’s your failure… if you can’t see what’s right in front of you.”
He rewards me by sinking one thick finger inside me, curling on the outstroke until my thighs clamp around his wrist.
“Good girl,” he rasps.
The praise hits like a match to dry grass.
A loud, shameless moan escapes me, and he swallows the sound with another bruising kiss.
His free hand finds the tie of my apron, yanks it loose so the bow unravels and the fabric falls open like a curtain.
Then he’s palming my breast through my dress, thumb dragging over my pebbled nipple, rolling it until I’m writhing against his hand.
He adds a second finger to my wet channel. Stretches me. Pumps slowly. The wet sound is obscene in the bright afternoon kitchen.
“Look at you,” he mutters against my mouth. “Opening for me like this.”
I can’t speak. I can only rock against his hand, chasing the pressure, the stretch, the heat that’s coiling tighter and tighter low in my belly.
He pulls his fingers free. I whine at the loss and he chuckles low in his throat.
“Patience.”
The zipper of his trousers is loud in the quiet room. I watch, mesmerized, as he shoves them down just enough. His cock springs free, heavy, thick, already glistening at the tip. My mouth waters. I’ve never seen it in the light before…never really seen it.
He grips himself, gives one rough stroke, then notches the head against me. The blunt pressure of him, hot and bare, makes me shiver with pleasure as he slides through my wetness.
I moan in my throat as my head tips back and I close my eyes.
“Kira.” My name is gravel. “Tell me you want this.” He presses the head of him against my most sensitive part and my body spasms in response.
“I want this.” As if to punctuate my point, I spread my legs further apart and tilt my pelvis up. “Please, Anton.”
A muscle jumps in his jaw. “If I keep going… I’m going to fill you with my cum again.”
My inner muscles flutter around nothing at the thought.
“Say it,” he orders. “Say you want my hot cum inside you.”
Heat explodes behind my ribs. I should be embarrassed. I should hesitate. Instead, I reach for him, move him right against my entrance, and whisper, “I want you to come inside me, Anton.”
Something breaks in his expression—something feral and possessive and almost anguished.
He thrusts.
One long, relentless slide until he’s buried to the hilt.
I cry out, half pain, half pleasure. He’s so deep it feels like he’s touching places that didn’t exist until right now. My nails dig into his shoulders; I feel the flex of muscle under my palms as he holds himself still, letting me adjust.
“Breathe,” he growls. “Breathe for me.”
Then he starts to move in claiming, almost punishing thrusts. Hard, deliberate strokes that drag against every sensitive place inside me. The counter edge bites into my ass with every thrust; I don’t care. I lock my ankles behind his back and pull him deeper, harder, meeting him on every stroke.
“You feel that?” he pants. “That’s me. All of me. No one else gets this. No one else gets you.”
“Yes—”
“Say it.”
“Yours,” I gasp. “I’m yours.”
He groans like the word physically hurts him. His rhythm stutters, turns erratic. One hand slides between us; rough fingertips find my nub and rub fast, messy circles.
“Fuck. Your pussy is milking me. Your pussy wants my cum. Wants to be full so full of me.”
“Yes,” I scream. Because in this moment I know it’s true. I want that, every part of my body wants that. I want whatever will get me crashing through this wave. How can something so obscene feel so good?
He grunts with each thrust now as he leans back a little to watch what he is doing to me.
“You’re made for me, Kira. You’re made for my cock. My cum.” His words are fractured now, breaking apart beneath the pleasure that’s rising in him as much as it is me.
“Fuck, you’re too tight,” he moans.
My body snaps tight and then I shatter with a scream. I clench around him so hard he curses in low, broken Russian, and then he’s driving deep and holding there as heat floods me in heavy pulses. Both of us taking what we need to draw out the pleasure for as long as possible.
He doesn’t move for a long moment. Just stays buried, hips flush to mine, breathing against my neck like he’s trying to remember how his lungs work.
I feel the warm slip of him when he finally eases back, but he doesn’t pull out all the way. He stays half-seated, one arm braced on the counter beside my hip, the other wrapped around my lower back, keeping me pinned against him.
His thumb strokes absently over the curve of my ass.
My dress is rucked up around my waist, panties long gone, and beneath my entrance I can feel the slow trickle of him. Hot, thick and undeniable.
He finally lifts his head and looks at me.
“I meant it,” he says quietly. “The sorry.”
“I know.”
He brushes a strand of hair off my damp forehead. The touch is so gentle it almost hurts.
"I see you," he says quietly. "I should have said it sooner."
I close my eyes. Feel his breath against my lips. Feel the weight of his hands on my hips, steady and warm and sure.
"Don't forget again," I tell him.
He pulls back. Looks at me with those pale eyes, still raw, still open in a way I've never seen them.
"I won't," he says.