10. Jealousy and Soul Ties #3
“You’re so tight,” he growled out, his voice thick. “Fuck, Nikolai.”
“Zhenya—”
“I know. I’ve got you.”
He took his time, working with painstaking patience until the ache shifted into a restless heat that had me shifting uselessly against the sheets.
“Please,” I begged, the words tumbling out. “Zhenya, please. I’m ready.”
He withdrew his fingers slowly, making me whimper at the sudden emptiness. But then he was shifting up between my knees, the head of his cock pressing against me.
“Look at me,” he said.
I opened my eyes, meeting his gaze.
He pushed in.
Inch by inch, he filled me. It was a heavy, overwhelming stretch, but there was no pain—just a deep, grounding weight that anchored me right where I was. My hands scrambled up to his shoulders, my nails digging into his skin as I tried to keep myself steady.
“Okay?” he breathed, his jaw tight with restraint. “Tell me it’s okay.”
“It’s—” I gasped as he sank the last inch. “It’s fine. Don’t stop.”
He buried himself completely and held still, letting my body adapt to him. His chest pressed against mine, our breath tangling together in the small space between us as we just stayed there, linked together.
Then he pulled back and drove in again.
The rhythm started slow—long, deliberate strokes that made my head spin. He didn’t take his eyes off me for a second, adjusting the angle and depth based on every breath I hitched, every sound I let slip.
“Right there?” he asked when my hips lifted to meet him.
“Yes—Zhenya, right there—”
He hit the same angle again, harder this time, and my back arched right off the bed. He let out a low groan, burying his face in the crook of my neck as his rhythm faltered for a second.
“You feel incredible,” he huffed into my skin.
He picked up the pace, driving deeper, the sound of our breathing filling the quiet bedroom. He reached down, lacing his fingers through mine and pinning my hand to the mattress beside my head.
“Look at me,” he demanded softly. “I want to see you.”
I forced my eyes open. His face was flushed, dark hair falling into his eyes, his mouth slightly open. But behind the sharp edge of desire, he just looked remarkably present.
His free hand slid down between our bodies, wrapping around my length. He began to stroke me in time with his thrusts, and the combination—the friction inside and out—sent a wave of static straight to the back of my eyes.
I broke first.
My body clamped hard around him as my release spilled over his fingers, my voice cutting through the room in a raw, broken cry.
Watching me unravel completely undid him.
“Nikolai—”
He drove deep one last time, his voice breaking against my shoulder as he came. I felt the sudden, hot pulse of him inside me, and I wrapped my arms around his back, holding him tight against my chest as his shoulders shook with heavy, ragged breaths.
When the tremor finally passed, he collapsed down onto me, keeping his weight on his elbows so he didn’t crush me, but refusing to pull away. I locked my legs around his waist, not wanting an inch of space between us.
Silence settled back over the room, heavy and warm.
After a few long minutes, he shifted, resting his cheek against my neck. I felt his lips move against my collarbone, uttering a quiet string of words I couldn’t quite catch over the ringing in my ears.
“What did you say?” I asked, my voice raspy.
Zhenya lifted his head, pushing a strand of damp hair out of his eyes. A genuine, unreserved smile softened the hard lines of his face.
“I said,” he whispered, “you’re never going to have to do this alone again.”
* * *
The room settled into quiet again, saved from complete silence only by the low hum of the air conditioning.
For a long time, neither of us said anything. Zhenya lay beside me with one arm anchored around my waist, his thumb tracing absentminded circles against my skin as if letting go hadn’t even entered his mind.
I rolled onto my side to face him. His dark hair had fallen across his forehead, softening his features completely. There was no trace of the formidable, sharp-edged businessman the rest of the world knew.
He caught me watching him. “What?”
I smiled. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you look this peaceful.”
“I was just thinking the exact same thing about you.”
I reached out, brushing a stray lock of hair from his brow. He leaned into the touch, bringing his face close until our foreheads rested together.
“No regrets?” he murmured.
“None,” I answered, without a second’s hesitation.
A visible tension drained from his shoulders—a weight he’d probably carried for years finally letting go. “Good.” He pressed a soft kiss to my forehead. “Neither do I.”
Silence wrapped around us again, heavy, warm, and entirely safe.
Eventually, Zhenya pulled the heavy duvet over us and reached for the nightstand, switching off the lamp and plunging the room into darkness. Beneath the covers, his fingers found mine, lacing together naturally.
No declarations were made; none were necessary.
For the first time in as long as I could remember, I drifted off wishing the morning would take its time coming.