Chapter 13 Inessa #2
He works at the button, sliding the zipper down, and then his fingers slip inside the loosened fabric, finding me already wet through the thin barrier of silk.
“You’re soaked,” he growls, his hand pressing harder, rubbing me through the fabric until I can’t keep still.
“From patching my wounds, or from knowing you’re mine?”
I bite my lip hard, refusing him an answer, but my hips lift against his hand in a rhythm I can’t disguise.
His eyes burn into mine as he slides past the last barrier, skin against skin.
The first stroke of his fingers makes me cry out unrestrained.
He doesn’t smirk this time at all.
He watches with relentless focus and intrigue, as his thumb circles my clit and his fingers thrust deeper.
“Say it,” he orders, voice rough.
“I hate you,” I grunt, and my hips keep rocking, but I realize I don't hate him at all.
I let my head fall back and expose my neck to his teeth while he continues to fuck me.
“Good.” His hand quickens.
“Then hate me while you come for me."
The pressure builds quickly and my thighs tremble against his hips, my chest tight.
And when release crashes through me, it tears my voice raw, his name ripped from my throat no matter how hard I try to choke it back.
I collapse against him, panting, but he doesn’t let me rest.
His fingers slip free, slick with my release, and he drags them up to my mouth.
I taste myself when he presses them against my lips.
His eyes are dark and demanding, watching me with lust in them.
I suck them in defiance, glaring at him, and his groan rumbles through my chest. It seems to get him going.
He likes when I resist, which I can do with pleasure.
“Off,” he commands, tugging at my blouse.
Buttons scatter as he rips it open, exposing my bra.
I yank it off myself, shaken that I’m helping him, but desperate too.
He makes quick work of my slacks, shoving them down my legs until I kick free.
I’m bare now, straddling him in nothing but flushed skin and shame.
His belt clinks, his zipper hisses, and then he pulls himself free.
He's thick, hard, and already slick at the tip as he grips me at the hips, positioning me above himself.
“Ride me, Inessa," he growls hungrily before biting the inside of my right breast.
“You arrogant bastard—”
The insult dies in a moan as he drags me down onto him in one brutal motion.
I gasp, nails clawing at his scalp and the back of his neck as he stretches me wide.
The fullness steals my breath, but his bandaged hands hold me steady until I find my balance.
“Move,” he growls.
“Show me how much you hate me.”
I brace on his chest and lift, then slam back down.
The shock of it tears another cry from my throat.
He groans a deep, rough sound as I begin to ride him.
Each rise and fall grinds him deeper, the friction unbearable, addictive.
“Good girl,” he mutters, head falling back.
“Take what’s yours. Take all of it.”
My body obeys before my mind can protest, bouncing harder on his cock, chasing the release building again inside me until I can barely breathe.
His bandaged hands squeeze tighter at my hips, dragging me down harder, guiding every thrust, using me with a roughness that leaves my thighs trembling.
The wet slap of our bodies colliding fills the room, filthy and relentless, and still I don’t care.
I’m too far gone, grinding and fucking him with abandon, as if I’ve needed this punishment and pleasure my entire life.
The pressure crests until I am shuddering, my climax ripping through me in waves.
My cries spill into his mouth when he drags me down against him and kisses me, swallowing every desperate sound.
He thrusts upward in savage rhythm, hips driving into mine until he follows me over the edge.
His groan is guttural, his body jerking as he empties himself inside me.
Heat floods me while his grip locks me against him, holding me tight as if he could fuse us together.
I sag against his chest, still trembling, and his breath rasps hotly at my ear.
For a long moment we stay there, joined, both shaking, both unwilling to release the other.
Finally, his hand strokes down my spine, steady and possessive.
“You fight me,” he murmurs, lips brushing my temple, “but you come for me every time.”
“You’re insufferable,” I whisper, though my voice has no bite.
My cheek rests against his shoulder, my body still clenching weakly around him.
“And yet you’re here.”
He tips my chin up, forcing me to meet his eyes.
"I still hate what you represent," I tell him, pressing a kiss to the side of his neck as I melt a little.
I haven't spoken to my friends or family, my staff, or even my lawyer, so maybe I'm going a little crazy here.
But I'm more comfortable with this arrangement than I ever thought I'd be.
"I know."
"I still want my freedom," I tell him as my hand rises and rests on his chest.
"I know that too."
But my words carry less conviction now, and we both recognize the shift.
Whatever this is growing between us—attraction, obsession, the twisted intimacy of shared captivity—it's becoming harder to deny.
"Tell me about Yelena."
His hand stills in my hair.
"Who told you about her?"
"Rosa. She said you used to be different."
I turn my head until I can see his face.
"I was weaker then," Yuri grumbles, but I don't believe him.
This sudden gruffness is put on.
"Were you? Or were you just human?"
He doesn't answer, but his arm tightens around me, pulling me closer against his warmth.
His silence is better than a lecture because I've been snooping into his personal history, so I'll take that as his agreement that we can coexist in peace in this moment.
But it doesn't mean I'm happy here.
It just means I'm not livid anymore.