Chapter 43 #2
He laughs against my lips. One finger pushes in, slow, and my breath catches.
The stretch is familiar now — not the shock it was the first time at the Pemberton, when his fingers felt like too much and I couldn’t believe I was letting anyone touch me there.
Now my body knows him. Opens for him. The muscle gives way and he slides in deep and crooks his finger and —
“Oh God,” I gasp. My hips lift off the mattress.
“I know what you like.” Smug. Always smug. “I’ve been doing this for a while.”
He works me open — one finger, then two, working me gently and expertly with his fingers while his mouth moves down my neck.
The stretch builds into a warm ache that pulses in time with my heartbeat.
His fingers brush that spot again and my cock jumps against my stomach, already leaking, and I grab his wrist.
“I’m ready.”
“Not yet.” He adds a third finger and the fullness makes me groan. “I told you. We’re not in a hurry.”
“You’re using my own words against me.”
“You taught me a very good lesson tonight.” He curls his fingers and the pleasure crests so hard my whole body shakes. “I’m an excellent student.”
He takes his time. Works me until I’m loose and slick and gasping, until my thighs are shaking and every nerve ending is lit up and I can’t form a sentence that isn’t his name.
Then he pulls his fingers out, tears the condom open, rolls it on.
I watch him slick himself — his cock is thick and hard and the sight of him stroking lube over himself, his jaw tight, his abs clenching — makes my mouth go dry.
He positions himself between my thighs. Lifts my legs over his hips. Lines up. The head of his cock presses against me, hot and blunt, and I feel my body bear down in anticipation.
“Look at me,” he says.
I look at him. The loft light is dim — just what’s coming up from the fire below and through the skylight above. His face is half shadow. His eyes are steady on mine. Snow is falling past the glass over his shoulder, and the flakes catch the faintest light and disappear.
He pushes in.
The first stretch pulls a low sound from my throat. He’s big — he’s always big, and no amount of prep changes that first moment when my body has to decide whether to resist or surrender. I choose surrender.
He slides deeper. Slow. Watching my face. I can see the strain in his arms, the effort of going at this pace when everything in him wants to push all the way home. His jaw is clenched. The accent comes out thick when he speaks.
“You feel incredible.”
“More.” I pull him closer with my legs. “Give me more.”
He gives me more. Inch by inch, until he bottoms out and we’re flush together and my body is so full of him I can feel myself pulsing around his cock. He holds still. His forehead drops to mine. We breathe together.
“Okay?” he asks.
I shift my hips and the drag of him inside me sends sparks up my spine. “Move.”
He moves.
Long, slow strokes. Pulling almost all the way out and pushing back in, and every thrust is deliberate.
He’s not rushing. He’s savoring it — the clench of my body around him, the sounds I make, the way I arch into each push.
His hands are on my thighs, holding me open, and his eyes don’t leave mine.
“God — Sasha — right there —”
He adjusts his angle and hits that spot dead center and my back lifts off the mattress. My hand grabs the headboard for leverage and I push back against him, meeting his next thrust, and the sound we make together fills the room.
“Harder,” I tell him.
He gives me harder. Deeper. His pace picking up but still controlled — still that maddening, deliberate rhythm that draws out every sensation until I can feel it everywhere.
The bed is creaking. My own voice is louder than I’ve ever heard it — no wall to muffle against, no pillow to bite.
The sounds bounce off the A-frame ceiling and come back and I don’t care.
“I love hearing you,” he says, driving in deep. “Every hotel room where you had to be quiet — I hated it. I wanted this.” Another thrust. “I wanted you loud.”
“Then make me louder.”
His rhythm breaks. Something in his control snaps and he starts fucking me in earnest — hard, deep strokes that slam the headboard against the wall and send sparks tearing through me every time he hits that angle.
I’m gripping the sheets, gripping his arm, my legs locked around him, and every thrust rips a sound out of me that I’d be embarrassed about if I could think.
I can’t think. There’s nothing left except his body and mine and the pressure building at the base of my spine.
“I’m close,” I gasp. “Sasha — I’m —”
“Touch yourself.” His voice is ragged. “I want to feel you come.”
I wrap my hand around my cock and it’s almost too much — the combination of his thrusts and my hand and the relentless pressure deep inside me.
Three strokes. That’s all it takes. Three strokes and my whole body seizes, my back arching hard, and I come so intense every nerve in my body fires at once.
I feel it pulse through me in waves — stomach, thighs, my hole squeezing hard around him — and the sounds coming out of my mouth aren’t words anymore.
“Fuck — Aaron —” His rhythm goes ragged.
I feel him swell inside me, feel his grip on my thighs go bruising, and then he buries himself deep and groans against my neck.
His cock pulses inside me — once, twice, three times — his whole body shuddering, his mouth open and hot against my skin.
He keeps moving, small helpless thrusts, working himself through it, and the aftershocks squeeze more from me until we’re both shaking.
He collapses. His weight presses me into the mattress and I let it. My arms go around his back. His face is buried in my neck. Our chests are heaving against each other and I can feel both our hearts hammering.
We stay like that. Just breathing. His cock softens inside me and he pulls out gently, deals with the condom, drops it over the side of the bed. Then he comes right back — wraps himself around me, his chest against my side, his leg thrown over mine, his face in the curve of my shoulder.
The fire downstairs is popping. The house smells like woodsmoke now. Above us through the skylight, the snow has thickened — fat flakes drifting past the glass, catching the last trace of light, disappearing into the dark.
Sasha’s fingers trace a lazy line down the center of my chest. His breathing is evening out.
I pull him closer. His hair is damp at the temples and his skin is hot against mine and his heartbeat is slowing under my hand.
This is the bed I’m going to wake up in tomorrow morning.
Not a hotel. Not a dorm. This bed, in this house, with this man’s arm across my chest and the stars through the skylight and three guest rooms downstairs that might, someday, hold Maksim or my sisters or the people we choose to let into whatever this life becomes.
I don’t say any of that. I don’t need to.
“Sasha.”
“Mm.”
“Thank you. For this place. For all of it.”
His arm tightens around me. His lips press against my shoulder. Warm. Brief.
“Stop thanking me,” he mumbles. “Go to sleep.”
“I’m not tired.”
“Liar. You played a full game three hours ago.”
“And I just had sex with a first-round draft pick. That’s cardio on top of cardio.”
He laughs against my skin. I feel it vibrate through my ribs.
The snow keeps falling. The fire keeps popping. The house is quiet around us. And somewhere in it, under the skylight, in the bed with the ruined sheets, I close my eyes and my chest finally unclenches.
I’m home.