Chapter 22 #2
I stand there in the green silk and look up at him, and I think, this is the man I just married, and I am not afraid of him, which is either the bravest or the most reckless thing I have ever felt.
His hands go to my face first, thumbs at my jaw, tilting me up toward him, and he looks at me for a second that stretches long enough to feel like a question.
“Still here,” I say quietly.
“Good,” he says, and his mouth finds mine again, slower this time, deeper, and I reach up and grip his wrists because I need something to hold onto.
His hands slide from my face to my hair, and the twist I put in comes down with a rough tug on the pins. He fists his hands in my hair and bruises my lips with his, devouring me until I can’t breathe, until I stop trying to.
His hands drop from my hair to the zip on the dress, and he slides it down, pushing it from my shoulders so the silk pools at my waist. The sound he makes is low and raw and possessive enough to make my thighs press together.
“Fuck,” he breathes, staring at me like I’ve just handed him something he didn’t think he’d ever be allowed to have.
“Don’t stop,” I say, and my voice comes out wrecked already.
His mouth drops to my neck, my collarbone, the curve of my breast, and I arch into him. His hands push the dress down over my hips, and it falls to the floor in a whisper of green silk that I do not mourn for a single second.
I’m standing in front of him in nothing but black lace and low heels, and the way he looks at me makes something primal and fierce unfurl. I kick off my shoes, losing the height and feeling all the more cherished because of it.
He towers over me, his face a dark mask of possessiveness and lust. “Your turn,” I whisper, reaching for the buttons of his shirt.
He lets me. That alone sends a jolt through me, because Laszlo Voronov does not let people do anything.
He decides, he moves, he acts. But he stands perfectly still while my fingers work each button free, exposing the ink that covers his chest, his ribs, the hard planes of his stomach.
I push the shirt off his shoulders and let it fall.
The tattoos are everywhere, a map of violence and devotion etched into skin that is hot under my palms.
I flatten my hands against his chest and feel his heart. It is beating fast.
Not nervous. Not now.
Hungry.
He catches my wrists and pulls them up, pressing my hands above my head as he pushes me down. “I have been thinking about this,” he says, his voice barely above a murmur, “since I walked into that office in your father’s house and you looked at me like you wanted to put a knife through my throat.”
“I wanted to,” I admit, breathless.
“I know.” His grip tightens on my wrists, just enough. “And now?”
“Now I want something else.”
His mouth crashes against mine, teeth scraping my bottom lip as he shoves me further up the mattress.
He follows me down, the hard planes of his body pinning me, his cock rigid against my thigh.
My wrists are trapped above my head in one vice-grip hand while the other rips down my lace bra, exposing my breasts to the cool air.
“Fuck,” he growls against my throat, biting down hard enough to mark me.
I arch and moan, shameless and desperate.
His tongue traces my ear before he whispers filth about how wet I must be, how he can smell my pussy already.
I’m soaked, writhing beneath him on these sheets I picked out, on this mattress he bought new because I couldn’t bear the thought of fucking where he’d had other women.
His free hand finds the clasp of my bra and tears it open with a snap that makes my pussy clench. He rips the lace away and devours me with his eyes. The look on his face is feral—a predator who’s caught his prey and plans to consume every inch.
My nipples harden painfully under his stare.
His gaze burns across my breasts before he grabs one roughly, thumb flicking over the peak as he growls, “This perfect fucking body belongs to me now.”
The words brand me between my thighs.
“Yes,” I gasp, already desperate to be filled. “Make me feel it.”
Something savage flashes in his eyes at my answer.
He bends and takes one nipple into his mouth, and I gasp, bucking under him as pleasure shoots straight through me.
His hand still holds my wrists pinned above my head.
The other cups my breast, thumb brushing the other aching peak until I can’t stay still.
“Laszlo,” I breathe.
He growls against me, then bites lightly. I jerk under him with a cry.
He releases my wrists only to drag my knickers down my thighs, the rough scrape of his knuckles against my fevered skin making me whimper. The lace catches, tears at my knees, then my ankles, and I kick free while he stares at my exposed pussy like a man starving.
He spreads my thighs with brutal hands, and my breath leaves me in a broken sob.
My fingers clutch the sheets as he looks at me with an expression that is filthy before he ducks his head and sucks my clit until I cry out.
I flood his mouth, and he growls, low and controlled, before he nips me.
I rasp out a breath, and he thrusts two fingers deep inside my pussy.
My whole body is on fire. Pleasure hits so hard it almost hurts, in the best possible way, because he keeps going, keeps his mouth on me, keeps those fingers driving in and out until I can’t remember how to breathe properly.
“Fuck,” I gasp, my hand flying to his hair.
He slams my wrist to the mattress, his grip bruising, his mouth never leaving me. The raw dominance of it, how he doesn’t even need to look up to control me, sends liquid heat flooding between my thighs.
His dark laugh vibrates against my swollen clit before he sucks it hard between his teeth.
My body convulses as he growls against me, “Fucking drench my tongue,” then drives his fingers deeper, curling them against that spot that makes my vision blur. I cry out something feral, something I’ve never heard from my own throat before.
I feel his teeth scrape my tender flesh as he smiles. Cruel, beautiful bastard.
“Your pussy tastes like it belongs to me, moya zhena.”
The possession in it makes me wetter. God, I am gone. Completely gone.
I tug at his hair again, harder this time with my other hand.
His hands lock on my thighs and hold me exactly where he wants me while he works me apart with ruthless patience, like he has all day, all night, all the time in the world to break me open and make me feel every second of it.
Pleasure builds hard and fast, too much, too sharp, and I can’t do anything but take it.
He’s not rushing me. He’s making me feel it.
Every sweep, every drag of his fingers, every tiny shift that has my whole body tensing under him.
I can feel the orgasm coming, and I hate how helpless it makes me, how completely he has me under him, spread open, shaking, my body answering him before my pride can catch up.
“Laszlo,” I gasp, trying to warn him, or beg him, or both.
He lifts his head just enough to look at me, his mouth wet, his blue eyes dark and merciless. “Come on my mouth, wife.”
The command hits something deep. I break.
My back bows off the bed as the orgasm rips through me, so violent I can’t breathe. He growls against my pussy like a feral thing, fingers fucking into me mercilessly while I gush around them. I’m sobbing, clawing at the sheets, my thighs quivering as he sucks my clit between his teeth again.
“That’s it,” he rasps, voice filthy-dark against my slick flesh. “Give me every fucking drop.”
My body obeys, clenching and pulsing as he devours me like he owns me—because he does.
“Fuck,” I whisper, wrecked.
He rises over me and pushes his fingers into my mouth.
“Clean them.”
I take them without thinking, lips closing around the taste of myself. His stare fixes on my face, hungry and intent, and I feel the exact second something in him tightens further.
“Good girl,” he murmurs.
The praise goes straight between my legs. I suck his fingers properly, and his jaw goes hard.
“Jesus Christ,” he says softly. “You’re trying to kill me.”
“Then fuck me before I lose my mind.”
A dark, vicious smile cuts across his mouth. “Careful what you ask for.”
He strips fast after that. No ceremony. No hesitation. Just skin and ink and thick muscle and the hard, heavy length of him, slick at the tip. My mouth dries even as my whole body stays drenched and aching for him.
He crawls over me, one knee forcing my thighs wider, his hand wrapping around his cock. He drags the head through my wetness once, slowly, and I jerk at the first hot pressure against my clit.
“Feel that?” he asks, voice low and rough with control.
“Yes.”
“This is what you asked for.”
“I know.”
He presses in just enough to make me gasp, then stops. Every nerve in my body lights up. He watches my face as he eases forward another inch, stretching me in a way that borders on painful and still makes me want to beg for more.
“Look at me,” he says, when I close my eyes.
I force them open and meet his.
His stare pins me harder than his body does. Blue, blown dark, ruthless and focused on every flicker that crosses my face. On the stretch, the ache, the way my breath keeps catching.
He pushes in deeper, slow enough that I feel every inch, every hot, thick press of him forcing my body to open.
My fingers knot in the sheet. It burns. It fills.
It takes. He watches all of it, jaw clenched, one hand braced by my head, the other gripping my hip hard enough that I know I’ll wear his handprint later.
His voice is low, controlled. “Take it.”
I do. I take him because I want him, because I asked for this, because he is my husband, and this is real, and I need every part of me to remember that. He keeps going, inch by inch, until the stretch turns almost unbearable and my thighs tremble around him.
“Laszlo,” I gasp, half plea, half warning.
His hand leaves my hip and slides to my throat, not squeezing, just holding me where he wants me as he sinks the last of the way in.
The breath leaves me.
For one second, neither of us moves.
I feel all of him. Buried deep. Heavy. Hot. My body clenches around him on instinct, and his eyes darken.