24. Anya #2
Then his eyes drop to my mouth, and the anger between us changes. It doesn’t disappear. It becomes something else. Something hotter.
He steps closer to the glass, close enough that the steam beads on his chest.
“You’re sore,” he says.
“I know.”
“You should rest.”
“I know that too.”
His eyes darken. “Then why are you looking at me like that?”
Because I want to feel like this body belongs to me, not to every person in this house with an opinion about it. Because last night, he took me apart, and somehow I woke up wanting to know what it feels like when he does it again.
I say none of that. Instead, I open the shower door. Water runs down my breasts and over my stomach. His eyes follow one drop as it slides between my tits.
“Come here,” I say.
For one second, he doesn’t move.
Then he does, stripping quickly. By the time he steps into the shower, his cock is already hard, thick and heavy between us.
The water hits his shoulders, running down his chest, over the scars I touched last night. He looks bigger in here. Closer. The steam makes the room feel too small to hold both of us.
He reaches for me slowly. I go to him before he can finish. His hand catches the back of my neck, and his mouth comes down on mine.
I moan against him, and he backs me against the wet tile. My spine hits the wall, and the heat of the shower presses around us while his body presses into me. His cock rubs against my stomach, hard and slick from the water.
He groans when my fingers close around his cock. The sound makes my knees weak.
I stroke him once, still awkward, still learning, but I know more than I did yesterday.
I know how his jaw tightens when I grip him harder.
I know how his breathing changes when my thumb moves over the wet head.
I know the kind of power that comes from making a man like Yaromir Volkov lose control by inches.
His mouth leaves mine and moves to my neck. “Careful,” he says.
I almost laugh. “You always say that.”
“You never listen.”
I stroke him again. His hand slams against the tile beside my head. The sound makes heat rush between my thighs.
He looks down at me, eyes dark and dangerous. “You like pushing me,” he says.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because you push back.”
That’s all it takes. He grabs my hips, turns me under the water, and kisses me again. His hands are everywhere. My waist. My ass. My breasts. He cups both tits, thumbs dragging over my nipples while the water makes my skin slick under his hands.
I gasp into his mouth. He squeezes harder.
Not enough to hurt. Enough to make my pussy clench.
“Yaromir.”
His mouth drops to my breast. The shower water runs over his hair, down his scar, over his shoulders as he bends and sucks my nipple into his mouth.
I cry out, one hand gripping the back of his neck, the other braced against the tile.
He sucks hard, then bites lightly, and pleasure shoots through me and I press my thighs together.
His hand slides down my stomach. “Open.”
My face burns. “Here?”
His eyes lift to mine. “Here.”
I open for him. His fingers find my pussy immediately, and I’m already wet, not only from the shower. He feels the difference. His mouth curves against my skin.
“Still sore?” he asks.
“Yes.”
His fingers move carefully over my clit, slow circles that make my breath break. “Too sore?”
I shake my head. “No.”
“Words.”
“No,” I whisper. “Not too sore.”
He kisses me again as his fingers work me open. Slowly at first. One finger sliding inside me while his thumb strokes my clit. I grip his shoulders, gasping into his mouth, the sound swallowed by the water hitting tile.
I’m tender. Every touch is too much.
Every touch is exactly what I want.
He adds another finger, and I tense.
He stops immediately. “Too much?”
I shake my head again, then remember. “No. Just… slow.”
He goes slow. That almost makes it worse.
His fingers move inside me with awful patience while his thumb keeps circling my clit. My hips start moving before I can stop them. Small at first. Then needier. He watches my face while I ride his hand in the shower, and the look in his eyes makes me feel naked in a way the water can’t explain.
“You like it when I’m careful,” he says.
I hate that my body reacts to the words. “I like it when you stop talking.”
“No, you don’t.”
He curls his fingers inside me, and I gasp.
“There,” he says.
I come apart faster than I expect. My orgasm hits in the middle of a breath, my pussy clenching around his fingers, my hands grabbing at him as my knees almost give. He catches me with one arm around my waist, holding me up while the pleasure shakes through me.
I bury my face in his chest.
The water keeps falling.
He pulls his fingers out slowly. For a second, I think he will stop again.
He doesn’t.
He lifts me, and I gasp as my back presses to the wet tile and my legs wrap around his waist. His cock is right there, hot and hard against my pussy, and my whole body tightens in anticipation.
He holds me still. “Tell me.”
I look at him through the steam, breathless, dizzy, aching. “I want you.”
His eyes darken. “Again.”
“I want your cock inside me.” The words leave my mouth before shame can stop them.
His control breaks. He kisses me as he lines himself up, then pushes into me slowly. Even after last night, even after his fingers, the stretch steals my breath. My nails dig into his shoulders. He stops halfway, forehead pressed to mine.
I laugh shakily, and the sound turns into a moan when he pushes deeper.
He fills me completely. My body trembles around him, sore and tight and desperate. He stays still, letting me adjust, but I can feel what it costs him. His arms are tense. His jaw is locked. His cock pulses inside me.
I move my hips first.
His eyes flash. “Anya.”
“Move.”
He does.
The first thrust makes my head fall back against the tile.
The second makes me cry out. The shower swallows some of the sound, but not enough.
He fucks me against the wall, strong arms holding me up, water running over both of us, his cock driving into me slow and deep at first, then harder when my body starts meeting him.
His hand grips my ass, lifting me into every thrust. My tits press against his chest. My clit rubs against him with each movement, sending sparks of pleasure through the ache.
I cling to him. There’s nothing else to do.
“You feel me?” he asks against my mouth.
“Yes.”
“You feel me fucking you?” he asks.
“Yes, oh…oh my God,” I moan, scratching his back.
His thrusts get harder. My back slides against the tile. The water beats down around us. I can barely hold on to a thought.
Only him.
“I can feel you deep inside me,” I whimper. “Oh my God.”
The words make me clench around him. He feels it and groans, rough and deep, the sound breaking against my neck. “You like that.”
“Yes.”
My face burns, but I say it. “Yes.”
His hand slips between us, thumb finding my clit again. I almost sob from the shock of it.
“Yaromir, I can’t.”
“You can.”
“I already did.”
“You’ll do it again.”
He rubs my clit while he fucks me, and my body gives in to him completely. The ache turns into heat. The heat turns into pressure. My thighs shake around his waist, and I feel myself getting close again, impossible as it seems.
He watches me through the steam. “Look at me.”
I force my eyes open. His face is wet, scar stark under the water, eyes fixed on mine like he’s taking every reaction and keeping it.
I come with his name in my mouth. My pussy tightens around his cock, and he swears, thrusting harder through it, chasing his own release while I shake against him.
His mouth covers mine, swallowing my cries, and then his body goes rigid. He comes inside me, deep, holding me pinned to the wall as the last hard thrusts roll through him.
For a while, neither of us moves.
The water keeps running.
My cheek rests against his shoulder. His cock is still inside me. His hands stay under my thighs, holding me up as if I weigh nothing.
I’m boneless.
Empty of anger.
Full of him.
Eventually, he turns his head and kisses the side of mine. Just once. A quiet kiss. Almost tender. That frightens me more than the rest.
“Can you stand?” he asks.
“No.”
His chest moves under my cheek. A laugh. Small, but real.
I lift my head. “Don’t laugh.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“A little.”
I should be offended. Instead, I smile into his shoulder.
He carries me under the water until it rinses us clean. Then he lowers me carefully, keeping one arm around me when my legs tremble.
I look at his face. “You’re still angry,” I say.
His expression changes, closing slightly. “Yes.”
“At Larisa?”
“At many people.”
“At me?”
His eyes roam over my face before he shakes his head.
I touch his chest, right over his heart, feeling it beat hard beneath my palm.
He looks down at my hand. Then back at me.
Neither of us speaks. Steam wraps around us. Water slides down our bodies. Somewhere below us, the house is awake now, full of secrets and judgment and old women with sharp tongues.
But here, in the shower, his arm is around my waist and my hand is on his chest.
For a few minutes, the world feels smaller than the Volkov name.
For a few minutes, it is only him and me.
After the shower, Yaromir wraps me in a towel like he doesn’t trust the fabric to do its job properly.
“I can dress myself,” I tell him.
“You almost fell asleep standing up.”
“I did not.”
“You put your forehead against my chest and stopped speaking for almost a minute.”
“That wasn’t sleep. That was peace.”
His mouth almost curves.
The bathroom is still full of steam. My legs feel weak, my skin warm and too sensitive, my body carrying the deep, delicious ache of him.
I should be embarrassed by how quickly I have learned to want him again and again, but embarrassment is becoming harder to hold on to when he looks at me the way he does.
Like he has already seen every part of me and still wants more.
He leads me into the bedroom and sits me on the edge of the bed. “Stay,” he says.
I lift my brows. “Like a dog?”
I can see him rolling his eyes.