Ruslan #2
I push in. Slow.
The head of my cock enters her, and the tight heat of her pussy closes around me so perfectly that for a moment I cannot move. She gasps, nails biting into my shoulders, her body trying to stretch around me.
“Okay?” I ask.
She nods in response.
I stay still.
Her hands slide from my shoulders to the back of my neck. “I’m okay.”
I give her another inch. Her mouth falls open.
“You’re so tight,” I say, because I can’t keep it in.
She makes a helpless sound and wraps her legs around me as if to pull me closer and stop me at the same time.
I push deeper, inch by inch, until I’m halfway inside her and already losing my mind.
Her pussy is wet enough to take me, tight enough to make me feel every movement. I watch her face as I fill her, watch the way pleasure and shock trade places, the way she clings to me harder the deeper I go.
When I finally sink in fully, she cries out and buries her face against my neck.
I still completely. My cock is buried to the base inside her. Her body is hot and soft under mine, her pussy fluttering around me in little helpless pulses that make my jaw clench.
“Fuck,” I breathe.
She laughs weakly against my throat. “That sounds promising.”
I pull back enough to look at her.
Even now, she has that mouth.
I grip her thigh and hook it higher around my waist. “Careful.”
“No,” she whispers, eyes half-drunk on pleasure. “You keep saying that.”
I begin to move. The first thrust is slow, because I need to know how she takes me.
She takes me beautifully.
Her eyes close. Her breasts lift under my shirt. Her pussy grips my cock like it doesn’t want to let me go.
I pull out halfway and push back in. Her moan turns my blood black.
“There,” I say. “That’s what you needed.”
“Yes.” The word is barely a breath.
I thrust again, deeper this time.
Then again.
Her body starts to understand the rhythm, hips lifting to meet mine, hands moving over my back, nails dragging lightly when the angle changes and my cock hits something inside her that makes her gasp.
I lower my mouth to her breast, push the shirt up with one hand, and take her nipple between my lips. She arches hard.
I suck her while I fuck her, feeling the soft weight of her breast in my hand, the tight peak against my tongue, the way her pussy clenches every time I bite gently and soothe it after.
She is everywhere under me. Soft stomach brushing mine. Thick thighs locked around my hips. Wet pussy taking my cock. Small, desperate sounds breaking out of her no matter how hard she tries to swallow them.
I lose the slow rhythm.
I fuck her harder.
Her back slides up the sheets with each thrust, and I catch her hips, pulling her down onto my cock as I drive into her. The room fills with the sound of it: her moans, my breathing, the wet slap of our bodies, the obscene slick sound of her pussy taking me again and again.
She tries to hide her face in my shoulder.
I catch her jaw. “Look at me.”
She keeps her eyes shut, biting her lip.
“Do you want less?”
Her eyes open, dazed and furious. “No.”
I smile despite myself. “Then look at me.”
She does. That nearly finishes me.
Her eyes stay on mine while I fuck her, and something about it makes the whole thing hotter, dirtier, more intimate than it has any right to be. She’s not hiding now. She’s taking every thrust with her mouth open and her body trembling and her pussy squeezing my cock like she was made for this.
I slide my hand between us and find her clit. The moment my thumb touches it, she jerks.
“Ruslan. Oh my God, oh my God, I’m coming, please.”
“You’ll come again.”
“I can’t.”
“You will.”
I circle her clit while I keep fucking her, hard and deep, and feel the change immediately. Her pussy gets tighter. Wetter. Her thighs start shaking around my waist.
“That’s it,” I say. “Right there.”
She shakes her head, but her body betrays her. Her hips push into my hand. Her clit is slick under my thumb, swollen and sensitive, and every stroke drags her closer.
“Tell me,” I say.
Her voice breaks. “I’m close.”
“Good.”
“Please.”
That word does something that unravels me completely.
I lower my mouth to her ear. “Come on my cock.”
She breaks.
Her whole body goes tight beneath me, pussy clamping down so hard around my cock that I almost come with her.
She cries out, nails digging into my back, hips shaking as the orgasm tears through her.
I keep my thumb on her clit and fuck her through it, giving her no room to escape until she’s sobbing and pushing at my chest because pleasure has turned too sharp.
Only then do I let myself go.
I drive into her once, twice, then bury myself deep and come with my mouth against her throat, a rough groan tearing out of me as my body locks over hers.
For a long moment, I can’t move. I stay inside her, breathing hard, one hand braced beside her head, the other still gripping her hip like I’m afraid she’ll disappear if I let go.
She’s trembling under me.
I lift my head. Her eyes are closed. Her cheeks are damp. Her mouth is swollen. My shirt is bunched around her ribs, her breasts bare, her body marked in small ways I will remember tomorrow.
A hard fuck I know how to handle.
This look on her face afterward, I do not.
I ease my hand off her hip and touch her cheek. “Zoya.”
Her eyes open slowly. For one second, she looks at me like she doesn’t know where she is. Then she remembers.
Me.
The room.
Everything.
I wait for regret. It doesn’t come, not yet.
Instead, she exhales, shaky and ruined, and whispers, “I think I forgot how to move.”
My mouth curves before I can stop it. “Good,” I say.
Her brows pull together. “Don’t sound proud.”
“I am proud.”
“That’s very mafia boss of you.”
I laugh, low and brief, and press my forehead to hers.
She goes quiet at that.
So do I.
The sex is easy to understand. Want, heat, body, release. Simple.
This is not simple. This is her hand sliding slowly from my shoulder to the back of my neck and staying there. This is me not pulling away.
Outside, rain hits the windows. Somewhere downstairs, my men are still looking for a traitor. My phone is probably full of messages I should answer.
I ignore all of it for another minute. Just one.
Then I pull out carefully, tie off the condom, and leave the bed long enough to clean up. When I come back with a warm cloth, she looks away, embarrassed again, which makes something tighten in my chest.
“Zoya,” I say.
She peeks at me. “What?”
“Let me.”
Her blush deepens, but she nods.
I clean her gently, and she lies there pretending not to be affected by it, though every time the cloth brushes the inside of her thigh, her breath catches.
When I’m done, I pull the blanket over her and sit on the edge of the bed.
She watches me with tired eyes. “Are you going to leave?”
“No.”
“You have work.”
“Yes.”
“Important mafia work?”
“Yes.”
She waits. I don’t move.
Finally, she says, quieter, “You’re staying?”
“For now.”
“For now,” she repeats, like she’s deciding whether that’s enough. Then she shifts under the blanket and looks at the empty space beside her.
The invitation is small. It still gets to me.
I turn off the lamp and lie beside her, not touching at first.
After a minute, she moves closer. Not all the way. Just enough that her shoulder brushes my arm.
I let her.
Then, in the dark, she says, “This was probably stupid.”
“Yes.”
She lets out a soft, tired laugh. “You’re supposed to lie.”
“I’m not good at that.”
“That’s definitely not true.”
I look toward the ceiling.
No. It is not true. But with her, I seem to keep making exceptions.
She falls asleep before I do, breathing evening out slowly beside me, one hand curled near her face.
I lie awake longer than I should. Thinking about the mole. Thinking about the men who tried to kill me. Thinking about the nameless woman from the phone, whose messages have been quiet since the shooting.
Thinking about Zoya Hart in my bed.
And the dangerous, impossible chance that I’m already in deeper trouble than I planned.