Chapter 11 – Elara #2
Roman chuckles against my skin. The vibration is deep, unsettling.
The bastard is laughing at me! He’s laughing at my surrender, at the way his sheer dominance has stripped away my defiance.
But even that humiliating realization can’t stop the tidal wave of sensation that rips through me.
I clutch the sheets, burying my face in the pillows as the first true climax of my life explodes, terrifying and exquisite, stolen by my captor.
He barely gives me a moment to breathe. He works quickly on his buckle and takes out his dick, all the while hovering above me.
He is massive, intimidating. When I see his sheer size, a fear that has nothing to do with him and everything to do with the unknown washes over me, and I start to shake my head.
He grabs my face with both hands, forcing my gaze up to meet his. He kisses my lips for a brief, hard moment before pulling back. His hazel eyes are molten honey gold, dark with a fierce, possessive need, but his voice is thick with absolute conviction.
“I won’t deliberately hurt you, printsessa. I won’t.”
He says it with so much sincerity, with such a devastating shift into the protector, that all my remaining fear collapses into a terrifying, irrevocable trust. I fully surrender.
He covers my body with his, the weight grounding me, and slowly, deliberately, aligns the crown of his hardness to the hot, slick entrance of my core.
“Ready?” he asks, holding my gaze captive.
My breath hitches. I can only manage a shaky nod.
He enters me with agonizing slowness, a deliberate invasion that is both terrifying and tender.
I gasp, the sudden, searing pain stealing the air from my lungs.
Tears instantly prick my eyes, and a small cry—a sound of sheer vulnerability—escapes my lips.
He freezes, massive and unmoving above me, braced on his elbows.
“Look at me, Elara,” he commands, his voice a low, rough murmur of comfort. “It's all right, printsessa. Just breathe.”
He doesn’t move again, keeping the full, burning connection perfectly still.
He’s terrifying, yes, but in this singular moment, holding me together while he tears me apart, he’s the only safe place I have.
His stillness is a strange, sweet concession, a brief moment of respect for the thing he is taking.
The initial pain recedes, replaced by a deep, aching fullness.
He is a wall of heat and muscle inside me.
My body, which had rebelled only moments ago, now settles around him, stretching and accepting.
I move slightly, instinctively, a tiny, desperate shift of my hips, not running from the sensation, but craving the depth.
It’s the signal he’s been waiting for. The tight control that had masked his own hunger snaps.
His face contorts, the handsome, composed mask shattering into a pure, raw hunger. He starts to move—not gently anymore, but with a terrifying, primal rhythm. It is intense, demanding, and utterly consuming. Every thrust is a vow, a forceful claiming that drives all thought from my head.
I cry out, not from pain, but from the shattering release of feeling wanted this completely.
I wrap my legs around his waist, meeting his intensity, desperate to feel more, to take more of him.
I am clinging to his shoulders, fingernails digging into the dark fabric, no longer resisting, but participating in my own destruction.
This isn’t just physical; it’s transformative.
He drives us both to the edge, demanding everything I have left to give, and I scream his name as the world dissolves in a torrent of white-hot sensation. He follows instantly, his body locking mine down with the rigid, shuddering weight of his final claim.
His body is a dead weight on mine, an absolute, grounding force that pins me to the mattress. My lungs burn, fighting to catch up with the sudden lack of air. The silence that crashes down after the violent storm of our joining is louder, somehow, than the noise we just made.
I feel a deep, persistent ache spread through my core, dragging me sharply back to the brutal reality of the moment. The sheets are sticky and warm beneath us. I’m exhausted, bruised, and utterly ruined.
Roman pulls out, a slow, deep release, and the abrupt loss of his weight makes me feel instantly cold and empty.
He doesn’t roll away, though. He pulls me roughly onto my side and tucks me in close against his chest. My cheek rests against his damp, muscled shoulder.
His arm is an iron bar settled possessively across my ribs, making escape impossible, even if I had the energy to try.
He whispers something quick and low in Russian—a word I don't understand, but it sounds like a final, permanent command.
Then, he pulls completely away and slides off the bed, heading into the bathroom. The door shuts with a quiet click. Next, I hear the sound of running water.
I turn onto my side and curl up, instantly feeling very lonely and bereft. My skin is still buzzing from his touch, yet his sudden absence is a cold void. For some reason, I suddenly feel tears sting my eyes. How dare I cry?
I quickly wipe them away when I hear the bathroom door open again.
I squeeze my eyes shut, pretending I’m asleep, because I’d die before I let him find out I’m crying.
I’m crying because he didn’t offer to take me to the bathroom, and he didn’t think to just hold me a little while longer.
He literally just took my virginity, the most intimate thing a man can take.
And while it was a pleasurable storm, my core still burns with a persistent ache.
“Elara?” His voice is a low rumble.
I feel the bed dip slightly, and his fingers gently touch my thigh. I almost recoil, but my body is too exhausted to move.
“Are you asleep?”
I don’t answer.
He doesn’t speak again.
I’m shocked out of my pretense by the unexpected touch of cool, wet linen. He runs the wet cloth over the inside of my thigh, then up my stomach, moving with a gentle, surprisingly careful precision. He’s cleaning the blood and the evidence of my pain.
His touch now is so soft, so sweet, it’s the most devastating thing he could have ever done.
I cry harder, silent tears sliding into the pillow, because this act of tenderness is actively pushing down my defenses.
Maybe I’d have preferred it if he had taken his own shower, then fallen asleep without holding me.
It would have been easier to harden my heart and hold onto my hatred that way.
When he finishes, he discards the cloth, flips us over so he’s beneath me, and pulls the heavy duvet over us both. He’s warm, solid, and utterly silent. His arm wraps around my midriff, and he plans a kiss to the top of my head.
“Goodnight, printsessa.”
Again, as I lie there, I acknowledge to myself that I’m doomed.