Chapter 19 #2
“You look beautiful like this,” I rasp. “All mine, falling apart without me needing to lay a finger on you.”
“Shut up, Maksim.”
I chuckle quietly, loving that even lost in desire she can still snap back at me. I love her stubbornness and that sharp mouth.
Fuck, I love everything about her.
Anya speeds up, pumping her finger in and out, and when she adds a second, she lets out another moan. A little louder, but still barely more than a whisper.
I imagine that soft moan in my ear when I sink into her. Her pussy so tight it clenches even around a slim finger.
My cock throbs unbearably and all my determination to just watch goes out the window when she throws her head back and releases her breast. The fingers that were pinching that rosy, delicious nipple now rub her clit, adding to the fingers thrusting into her soaked pussy.
I shove my underwear down. I take my cock in hand, so hard it hurts, and start stroking at the same slow rhythm I imposed on her.
Her green eyes shoot down to my hand, and she freezes for a second. Her mouth opens in a silent, surprised “o” and her fingers work faster. I pick up my own pace, squeezing tighter around the head of my cock, imagining how good it’ll feel to be inside her.
“Look at me,” I command when she tries to close her eyes again. “Look at me, Solnyshko. I want your eyes locked on me when you come.”
She obeys once more, both hands working faster now that I’ve allowed it. The only sounds in the room are sighs, ragged breaths, the wet sound of Anya’s slim fingers fucking her own pussy, and a grunt from me that I couldn’t hold back.
“I’m close,” she pants. “Maks, I…”
“Go ahead, Anya.” My voice sounds unrecognizable. “Let me see you come for me.”
Then she comes.
And it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
Her whole body arched on the bed, thighs trembling, mouth open in a scream she swallows and won’t let out. Her head falls back for half a second and her eyes flutter closed, but before I can reprimand her, Anya looks back at me as best she can before her eyes roll back from the sheer pleasure.
My name on her lips leaves me teetering on the edge.
Maks…
She moaned, and it was so intimate, so beautiful, so erotic that I had to let go of my cock to stop myself from coming with her.
I squeeze the base hard, breathe through my mouth, and hold on. I stay still, panting, fist clenched as I fight for a shred of self-control while she slowly recovers from her orgasm.
When she opens her eyes, still hazy, I’ve composed myself enough to stand. I pull up my underwear, barely containing my cock still hard and aching for her, and cross to her side, leaning over her.
“Good girl, Svetlana.”
I tuck a strand of tangled hair behind her ear and watch the effect those words have on her. Anya shivers and her pupils dilate even after being completely satisfied. Maybe not completely, because her breath catches and her tongue darts out to wet her lips, as if preparing for more.
Blyat[21].
My stubborn, proud wife likes to be praised, and wants to be fucked as much as I want to fuck her.
Against every instinct, I lean down to kiss her forehead. Her skin is warm and her hair smells so good that I linger there, breathing her in.
“Now sleep,” I command.
“And you?” Her voice comes out low and hoarse, her eyes already half-closed with exhaustion. I feel her fingers brush my arm and try not to think about the scent and taste clinging to them. “You didn’t…”
The honest answer is that I’m going to the bathroom to finish alone what she started, but she doesn’t need to hear that.
Anya is tired, falling asleep, and the last thing I want is to make her worry about me.
She’s already spent too much of her life yielding to the needs of others.
I don’t want her to do that with me too.
“Good night, Solnyshko.”
I straighten up, turn around, and head toward the bathroom. With my hand on the door, I hear a whisper from the bed.
“How long is this going to last, Maks?”
I stop for a second and think about it.
The truth is, I don’t know. I don’t know how long I can endure this war of pride that neither of us wants to lose. Or how long I can keep stopping at the edge, every night, convincing myself that I need her to ask me out loud.
When she worried the other night about whether I was hurt—even after I told her I killed a man—isn't that a kind of request?
Or when she ran out into the freezing snow to defend me from a bear attack?
The day she kissed the scar everyone's always been afraid to look at.
Hell, even when she flat-out tells me to keep kissing her.
Anya tells me every single day how much she wants me. Just not with words.
This demand of mine is just idiotic and exhausting.
The moment I turn to say something, she's already asleep. Her breathing is deep and steady, her features relaxed, her hands clutching the comforter she pulled over herself.
I stare at my wife longer than I should, still standing in the bathroom doorway in my underwear with a hard-on. Her words echo in my mind like a damn broken record.
How long is this going to last?
Until I stop being proud—that's the answer. Until the day I decide to swallow what's left of my stubbornness and accept that I lost this war the day that bear crossed through the snow and accepted her the way he accepted me when he was just a cub. Maybe before.
I go into the bathroom and close the door slowly, as always. Even wrecked and angry at my own stubbornness, I'll never allow myself to be the man who slams a door near the woman sleeping in my bed. My father did that kind of thing—slammed much more than doors near my mother—and I buried him.
Hot water from the shower falls on my shoulders, and I brace one hand against the wall while the other closes tight around my cock. The whole scene comes back to me.
The small body lying on the enormous bed, that fucking pink pussy—wet and bare—taking Anya's fingers. Every time she obeyed my commands and shivered at the praise.
I speed up the movement of my fist.
My too-short name leaving her mouth the moment she came. Not exactly quiet, but not scandalous either.
I come fast, clenching my jaw to keep any more grunts from escaping. And even after feeling the relief of finally letting go, I don't relax. Not until I accept the truth screaming in my face:
Anya is perfect for me in exactly the right way, and I have to stop fighting.