Kira
“You’re in a mood,” he murmurs, voice low enough to vibrate through my bones.
“I’m in a claiming mood.” I lean in until my lips brush the shell of his ear. “And tonight, you’re going to take it.”
A rough sound tears out of his throat, half laugh, half growl.
I begin unbuttoning his shirt, then push both that and his jacket from his shoulders. His chest is a map I’ve memorized: the faint white scar under his left pec, the dark trail of hair that disappears into his waistband, the way his nipples tighten the second the air hits them.
I drag my nails lightly down his sternum.
His jaw flexes. The muscle jumps. I grind against the thick ridge already straining behind his zipper. His hips jerk up before he can stop them. A choked Russian curse leaves his lips.
I smile against his throat, then bite.
“Fuck—Kira—”
“Shh.” I lick the mark I left. “You’ve had me against every surface in this house for weeks. Now it’s my turn.”
I work his belt open with deliberate slowness. Button. Zipper. I don’t try to pull his slacks down with me sitting on his knee, just open them enough to free him. His cock drops into my hand, hot and heavy, already leaking at the tip. I give one slow, twisting stroke from root to crown.
His head falls back. Tendons stand out in his neck.
“Look at me,” I whisper.
His eyes snap to mine. Blown, wild, glittering with something close to insanity.
I rise up on my knees, move my panties aside and notch him at my entrance, before sinking down in one long, ruthless glide.
We both groan.
He’s so thick it borders on too much, even after weeks of him inside me every chance he gets. My walls flutter and clutch, trying to take all of him at once. I feel every ridge, every vein, the blunt head kissing my g-spot when I bottom out.
I hold there, motionless, letting him feel how tightly I’m gripping him.
His fingers tighten on my hips until his knuckles go white. His chest heaves.
“You feel that?” I rock my hips in the tiniest circle. “That’s me taking what’s mine.”
“Kira—” His voice is shredded. “If you keep talking like that this will all be over before you get what you need.”
I lean forward, brace my hands on his shoulders, and start a slow, torturous grind, but not giving him the deep, pounding strokes he’s dying for. Just enough friction to drive us both insane.
His hips try to thrust up. I clamp my thighs tighter, pinning him.
“Stay still,” I breathe against his mouth. “Or I’ll stop and finish myself on your tongue instead.”
A broken sound rips out of him.
I reward obedience with a harder roll of my hips. His cock drags against that perfect spot inside me and lightning shoots up my spine. I moan, loud and shameless, and his control visibly fractures.
“Fuck, you’re dripping down my balls,” he rasps. “So wet I can hear it.”
I am. I can feel it. Slick, obscene, coating us both every time I lift and sink again.
I speed up just enough to make my breasts bounce under my dress. His gaze drops, hungry, feral. Then his hands come up and in one fast motion, before I’ve even registered what’s happening, he has torn the front of the dress apart.
He groans as he watches my breasts spill from the lace cups of my bra.
“Touch them,” I command.
His hands fly up like they’ve been waiting for permission their whole lives. Big palms cup me, thumbs brushing the stiff peaks. I arch into the contact, riding him harder now with deep, punishing strokes that make me shiver with ever pass.
He pinches. Rolls. Tugs just hard enough to make me gasp.
“Yes,” I moan. “Just like that—”
One hand leaves my breast and slides down to where we’re joined. His thumb finds my swollen clit and presses firmly against it.
I cry out.
“Give it to me,” he growls. “Come on my cock. Let me feel you milk me.”
I’m already there, coiling, tightening, right on the edge.
I grab his hair with both hands, yank his head back, and kiss him like I’m trying to devour him. Teeth. Tongue. Desperate. Filthy.
He groans into my mouth, thumb never stopping its rhythmic circles, hips finally snapping up to meet me because I’m too far gone to punish him for it.
The orgasm hits like a freight train.
I scream his name, clamp down so hard he curses in Russian, and shatter around him, wave after wave of pulsing heat, slick gushing over his cock and down his thighs.
He doesn’t wait for me to finish coming.
The second my inner muscles start to flutter he plants both hands on my ass, lifts me, and slams me back down in brutal, claiming strokes that make my teeth rattle.
Then he buries himself to the hilt and comes with a broken, guttural sound that vibrates through both of us.
I feel the hot, thick pulses flooding me, so much it spills out around him, dripping onto his slacks, the chair, my thighs.
He keeps rocking into me through the aftershocks, shallow little thrusts, smearing his release deeper like he’s marking me from the inside out.
When we finally still, I’m draped over his chest, both of us slick with sweat and sex, breathing like we’ve run miles.
His arms come around me. One hand strokes my spine. The other cups the curve of my ass.
I feel his lips press to my temple.
“Mine,” he whispers, voice wrecked. “All fucking mine.”
I smile against his throat.
“Yours,” I agree.
Then I clench around him on purpose just to hear him groan again.
He laughs, low and dangerous.
“You’re going to kill me, wife.”
I lift my head, meet those silver eyes, and smile the wickedest smile I know how to make.
“Good,” I murmur. “Then you’ll die happy.”