23. Yaromir #4
She looks at me for a long second, like she doesn’t know what to do with honesty when it comes from me.
Then she kisses me. Not shyly. Not like the woman who was nervous beneath me minutes ago. She kisses me with her arms around my neck, her body warm in my arms, my shirt hanging loose around her.
“I want you inside me again,” she whispers against my mouth.
My hands tighten around her. “You’re sore.”
“I know.”
“You bled.”
“I know.”
Her mouth finds mine again, softer this time, but the softness doesn’t last. She bites my lower lip, and the sound that leaves me is enough to make her breath catch.
“I still want you,” she says.
That ends the argument.
Her body is tender now, but she’s wet again by the time my fingers find her clit.
She grips my wrist, not to stop me, but to hold herself steady as I circle it slowly, coaxing the ache back into hunger.
Her eyes close, and I kiss her throat, her jaw, the soft curve of her breast where my mouth left marks earlier.
When I push inside her again, she gasps and buries her face against my neck.
I stop.
She tightens her legs around my waist. “Don’t stop.”
So I don’t. I fuck her slowly at first, deep and controlled, feeling every small change in her body.
The way she clenches around my cock. The way her breathing breaks when I press my thumb to her clit.
The way she learns to lift her hips and take me better, chasing the pressure instead of resisting it.
By the time she comes, she’s not quiet. Her nails dig into my back, her mouth open against my shoulder, her pussy pulsing around me until I have to grit my teeth and hold myself still to keep from finishing too soon.
I take her in front of the fireplace, then again against the heavy armchair when she crawls into my lap and kisses me like she has discovered a new kind of power. She’s shy for only a moment when she sinks down onto my cock, eyes wide, hands braced on my shoulders.
Then she starts to move.
Awkward at first. Then less so. Then with a slow, hungry roll of her hips that makes my hand close hard around her waist.
“That,” I say, voice rough. “Do that again.”
She does. Her head tips back, my shirt sliding down one shoulder, her tits bare in the firelight. I take one nipple into my mouth while she rides me, and she breaks apart over me, trembling and flushed, whispering my name like she’s angry at how good it feels.
Later, I bend her over the table.
I check her first. I make her look back at me and say yes clearly, because I’m still not enough of a bastard to take silence from a woman on her first night.
She says yes.
So I lift the shirt over her hips, spread her legs with my knee, and enter her from behind.
Her hands clutch the edge of the table. Her hair falls over one shoulder. The fire throws gold over her bare back. I keep one hand at her waist and the other between her legs, rubbing her clit while I fuck her until she’s shaking too hard to stand.
She comes with her forehead pressed to the wood, my name breaking in her mouth.
After that, she’s half-laughing, half-breathless, boneless in my arms when I carry her back to the rug.
“This is your fault,” she whispers.
“My fault?”
“You made me like it.”
I look down at her, at her swollen mouth, her ruined hair, her skin marked by my hands and mouth. “No,” I say. “You always liked it. I only found out.”
She slaps my chest weakly. Then she kisses the same place.
That kiss does something worse to me than all the rest.
The night stretches around us. The fire burns lower. The room smells like smoke, sex and her. Every time I think she’s done, she reaches for me again. Every time I decide I’ve had enough, she moves against me in some small, needy way and I’m hard again.
I take her on her back, her legs over my shoulders.
I take her on her side, slower, one arm wrapped around her, my mouth against her ear while she shakes through another orgasm.
Near dawn, she lies beneath me with tears at the corners of her eyes, not from pain, not exactly, but from too much feeling in a body that has only just learned how to hold it.
I kiss the tears away. That’s the one gentle thing I allow myself.
When I finally come for the last time, it’s deep inside her, my forehead pressed to hers, her hands in my hair, her voice hoarse as she says my name.
Afterward, neither of us moves. The fire has almost died. Only embers remain, low and red, breathing faint heat into the room. Anya is curled against me on the rug, my shirt wrapped around her, one bare leg thrown over mine. Her hair is everywhere. Her breathing is slow and heavy now.
Asleep. Completely.
I should carry her to bed.
I don’t. I lie there with my arm around her and watch the last of the fire fade.
At some point, sleep takes me too.
I wake to a door banging shut, the sound cracking through the quiet house. My eyes open immediately. For one second, I don’t move. I listen.
Anya is still asleep against me, warm and soft, her face turned into my chest.
Then I hear footsteps outside the drawing room.
Someone has found us.