Tanya
He’s still inside me, thick and heavy, not softening the way I thought men did after they finished.
The stretch is obscene now. Every tiny shift of his hips sends a fresh ripple through already sensitive walls, and I can feel the slow leak of him where we’re joined, warm and slippery.
He’s kissing the back of my neck like I’m something fragile and precious, one big hand still lazily kneading my breast, thumb brushing the nipple in slow, absent circles that keep my body humming.
Ten minutes. Maybe more. And he’s still hard.
The realization settles low in my belly, dark and thrilling. He’s not done with me yet.
I shift experimentally, rocking my hips just enough to feel him nudge deeper, and the low groan that rumbles out of his chest vibrates straight through me.
Satisfaction curls in my ribs, sharp and greedy.
I like this. I like that I can do this to him.
That after two years of pretending he didn’t exist, after one night of letting him unravel me, I can still make Aidan Orlov lose every scrap of composure just because my body is wrapped around his cock.
I want more of it. I want to see him come apart again. I want to watch this time.
Carefully, I press my palms into the mattress and twist beneath him. He lets me move, easing back just enough so I can roll onto my back. The moment his length slips free there’s a warm, wet rush between my thighs and I feel it trickle down toward the sheets.
His eyes are dark, pupils blown, chest rising and falling like he’s been running.
He braces one forearm beside my head, the other hand sliding possessively over my hip as he looks down at where we were joined moments ago.
His cock juts heavy between us, glistening, still fully erect, flushed dark and veined.
The sight of it makes something hot and reckless bloom behind my ribs.
I reach between us, fingers wrapping around him. He hisses through his teeth, hips jerking forward into my grip. He’s slick with us, velvet over steel, and I give him one slow, deliberate stroke from root to tip.
His jaw flexes. “Tanya—”
“Can you go again?” My voice comes out huskier than I expect. I stroke him again, thumb sweeping over the sensitive head, collecting the bead of pre-cum that wells there. “Because I want to watch you come this time. I want to see exactly what I do to you.”
Something raw flickers across his face. Hunger. Awe. Like my words just punched through every wall he’s ever built.
“Jesus,” he mutters, almost reverent. “You have no idea what you’re asking for.”
“I think I do.” I guide him forward until the thick head nudges my swollen folds again and I press the hot and insistent tip against my clit. “I want you to come on me. All over my pussy. I want to feel it. See it. Watch how much you still have even after you already filled me once.”
His eyes flare. A muscle ticks in his cheek. He looks like a man who’s just been handed the keys to something he’s been dying for.
“You’re trying to kill me,” he says, voice gravel-rough.
“No.” I tilt my hips and spread my knees further, letting his length slide through my folds, coating him in the mess we already made. “I’m trying to make you lose control. Again. Because I like it.” I squeeze him on the next upstroke. “I like watching you fall apart because of me.”
He curses under his breath, Russian or Gaelic, I can’t tell, and then he’s moving.
One hand grips the base of his cock, guiding himself so the head notches right against my entrance without pushing in.
the other rests on my knee, pushing it down slightly while his eyes are pinned to the mess he has already made of my pussy. He strokes himself slowly.
“Look at you,” he rasps. “Spread open, dripping with me, and still begging for more. Fuck, Tanya. See how hard you make me? Even after I just drained my balls inside you, look at this cock, still leaking for you. Still ready to mark you again.”
The words hit like sparks. Dirty. Worshipful. Exactly what I didn’t know I needed.
I reach down, spreading myself wider with two fingers so he has an unobstructed view. “Then do it,” I whisper. “Come on me. Show me what I do to you.”
He works himself faster now, the tip bumping my clit with every pass. His breathing turns ragged, muscles in his forearm standing out as he holds himself right there, right on the edge. His eyes lift to mine as his features soften with pleasure.
“I’m going to paint this pretty pussy,” he growls. “Going to cover you in it so you can feel exactly how much I want you. How much I’ve always wanted you.”
The first hot stripe lands across my clit and lips, thick and white, shocking in its heat.
I gasp. He groans like it hurts, but keeps going.
Another pulse, another rope, landing higher this time, splashing over my mound, dripping down my folds.
He aims the next one deliberately, watching it land right where I’m still open and sensitive, mixing with everything already there until I’m a slick, glistening mess.
He milks the last of it out with a low, broken sound, smearing the head through the cum he just spilled, spreading it over me like he’s claiming territory.
When he finally stills, chest heaving, he looks down at the mess he’s made and something possessive and reverent crosses his face.
“Look at that,” he murmurs, almost to himself. Voice wrecked. “Look at how much you pull out of me.”
I reach down, fingers sliding through the warm, sticky evidence, then bring them to my lips and taste us. His eyes darken impossibly further.
“You’re dangerous,” he says, but there’s a smile in it, small and stunned, like he can’t quite believe I’m real.
“Damn right,” I whisper. “And I’m just getting started.”