Chapter 13
The First and the Last
—Kira—
He set me down on the bed and followed me there, his weight settling between my thighs, braced on his forearms like he was holding himself back by sheer will.
His mouth stayed on mine—his tongue sliding against mine, retreating, returning, like he was tasting instead of taking.
Every pause felt intentional, controlled, and it made my body ache.
My heart was racing so hard it felt loud in my ears. I was hyperaware of everything—his breath on my lips, the heat rolling off him, the tension locked in his shoulders—as if my nerves had been stripped raw and left exposed.
His hands slid up my sides beneath the hoodie, palms spreading over my ribs, thumbs pressing just enough to make me inhale sharply. He kissed me again, deeper, then pulled back to look at me—eyes dark, focused, hungry.
I swallowed.
When he lifted the hem of the hoodie and pushed it up slowly, the cool air brushed my skin and I shivered. His gaze tracked every inch he revealed, unblinking, like he was memorizing me.
“Red lace,” he murmured, almost to himself.
I felt exposed and powerful all at once. “I didn’t plan it,” I said, voice barely there.
He didn’t answer. His hand closed around my breast through the fabric, grip firm, thumb pressing until a sharp, electric jolt shot through me—and then, as if he caught himself, he loosened his hold, smoothing his palm over me instead. That contrast—claiming, then careful—made my breath stutter.
He pushed the bra down and bent his head, mouth closing around my nipple.
Slow. Wet. The scrape of his stubble sent a shock straight through my spine and I arched into him, a broken sound leaving my throat.
My fingers threaded into his soft hair, as if I needed the touch to ground myself while he pulled pleasure from places I hadn’t known could feel like this.
When his teeth grazed the sensitive curve of my breast, my breath caught—sharp, involuntary—then he kissed the spot again, softer this time, his lips lingering like an apology he didn’t know how to say out loud.
I watched him, dazed, heart trembling. This wasn’t how he’d been before.
Last time, he made me choke on him—held me down, used me, didn’t even hesitate.
But now? He was trying. I could see it in the way he hesitated.
The way his hands, rough and capable of destruction, softened every time they touched me.
He was holding himself back. Fighting some war beneath the surface I couldn’t fully understand.
“You don’t have to be gentle,” I whispered, heat flooding my face.
He froze for half a second. Then he lifted his head, eyes locking onto mine.
“I’m trying not to break you. Don’t make it harder,” he said quietly.
His hands slid down my stomach, fingers flexing at my hips—too tight for a moment, possessive—then easing, like he was choosing control over instinct. He kissed his way lower, mouth hot, unhurried, leaving heat in his wake.
He tugged the sweatpants down slowly, inch by inch, and when the red lace underneath was revealed, his jaw tightened.
“Fuck,” he breathed.
I was trembling now. From nerves. From anticipation. From the fact that no one had ever looked at me like this.
He kissed the inside of my thigh. Then the other. His hands spread my legs, gentle but decisive, thumbs pressing into my skin like he needed to anchor himself.
When his mouth pressed against me through the fabric, I gasped and instinctively tried to close my legs. He stopped me with a firm grip, fingers digging in—then immediately softened, rubbing slow, grounding circles with his thumbs.
“Easy,” he murmured. “I’ve got you.”
The sensation alone was dizzying—his warmth, the pressure, the awareness that he was right where no one had ever been.
He took his time, dragging his tongue over the delicate fabric, precise and unhurried, and I arched upward before I could stop myself. My body felt like it was tipping toward him, like gravity had shifted.
He hooked his fingers into the waistband and slid the underwear down, his knuckles grazing sensitive skin on the way. The cool air hit me—and then his mouth replaced it.
I cried out.
He opened me with his tongue, broad and wet, tracing me slowly, learning me. He teased—flicking, circling—then pulled back just enough to make me ache before returning with more pressure. Every nerve lit up.
My hands fisted the sheets. I couldn’t stop moving. Every touch felt amplified, overwhelming, like my body was waking up to something it had been starving for.
He sucked gently, then harder, lips sealing, tongue working me with intent. When I gasped, he adjusted instantly—reading me, responding—fingers tightening on my thighs to keep me open as his mouth took me apart.
And then he grew hungrier.
He gripped my thighs harder, possessively, pulling me closer as his mouth attacked me with raw, filthy intent.
His tongue slid inside me, slow and deep, then withdrew only to circle and flick with maddening accuracy.
He moaned against me—like he fucking loved it—and the vibrations hit me everywhere.
“Maksym,” I whimpered, voice breaking.
His hands slid under my ass, lifting me, angling me exactly how he wanted. He didn’t give me a second to think. Just licked me open, sucked hard, then did it again and again, relentless and obscene.
The pressure spiraled fast, too fast. I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. My legs shook violently as the heat burst through me—hot, punishing, all-consuming.
My thighs clamped around his head, instinctive and uncontrollable, but he didn’t stop.
If anything, he groaned like he liked it, like being trapped there, devouring me, was exactly where he wanted to be.
I tried to push him away, to breathe, to survive it—but his hands held me firm, mouth merciless, tongue dragging me straight into oblivion.
I shattered with a scream, coming so hard I saw white.
He didn’t stop until I went limp.
Then he kissed the inside of my thigh. Once. Twice. A third time.
I lay there gasping, ruined, tears slicking my lashes.
He lifted himself over me again, kissed me slowly, deeply, until I tasted myself on his tongue. My body sparked back to life—arousal reigniting like a match to gasoline.
“I wanted to go slow,” he said, kissing me again, “but one taste of you and I lost my fucking mind. Are you okay?”
I nodded, dazed, still trying to catch my breath. But I felt him then—hard and thick through the towel that was still wrapped around his waist. Fuck. How had he tied it so well? My hand slid between us, fingers tracing the outline, frustrated by the barrier. I needed it off. Now.
His jaw clenched. He hissed.
“Look at me,” he said, cupping my cheek. “I need to know this is what you want.”
I met his gaze, pulse thrumming everywhere. “I’m not a porcelain doll, Maksym. Come on. Fuck me already.”
His eyes darkened.
He stood, eyes locked on mine, and with one smooth, deliberate motion, he tugged the towel loose from his waist. It dropped to the floor without a sound.
His cock dropped into view—thick and massive, veins prominent, flushed dark and glistening.
I swallowed hard. He was just as gorgeous as I remembered, but this time, that thing was going inside me.
My mouth went dry. My thighs pressed together in anticipation.
He caught my look—part awe, part terror—and smirked. “Still want me to fuck you, Malaya?”
My breath hitched, but I gave a small nod.
He climbed over me again, kissed me like he meant to claim every breath I had left, and then slowly—achingly slowly—aligned himself with my entrance, his cock hard and hot as he nudged against the tight, wet heat of me.
His hand gripped my thigh, fingers digging in before softening, stroking me instead.
Our eyes locked, his chest rising like he was holding back a storm.
He rubbed against me first—once, twice—coating himself, teasing, making me tremble before he finally began to push in. The stretch was intense, his size forcing my body open inch by inch. I gasped, breath catching, back arching, fingers gripping his shoulders like a lifeline.
“Breathe,” he whispered into my ear. “Just let me in.”
I tried. But my legs tensed involuntarily, thighs clenching around his hips.
“Relax, Malaya,” he said, voice gravelly, kissing the side of my neck. “You’re doing perfectly.”
He pulled back slightly, then pushed in again—deeper this time. The burn bloomed and twisted into pleasure, raw and all-consuming. My nails bit into his back. He groaned at the sting.
I whimpered, my hips twitching beneath him.
He was barely halfway in, and I already felt like I was being split apart.
My breath came in ragged gasps as my body struggled to adjust, instinctively trying to clamp down and push him out, but also desperate to keep him there, to take more.
The pressure burned, a sharp, aching fullness that sent tremors through me.
I blinked up at him, overwhelmed, panting, stunned by how much I wanted what I wasn’t sure I could handle.
Every nerve ending screamed—some in protest, others in pleasure I didn’t yet know how to name.
He stilled, forehead pressed to mine. “You need to tell me if it’s too much.”
I shook my head, lips parting in a shudder. “Don’t stop. Please, don’t stop.”
His hand slid down to my hip, anchoring me, and then he thrust again—deeper. My mouth fell open in a cry that was half pain, half ecstasy. The stretch, the pressure, the overwhelming fullness—it was too much. And yet, I craved more.
My legs wrapped around his waist without thinking. I clung to him as he began to move with slow, grinding thrusts, working me open with every push of his hips.
“You’re not real,” he muttered, breath hot against my cheek.