Chapter 15
Peighton
Gustav yanks me to a stand. His breath ghosts across my lips, warm and ragged as he says, “I don’t need a mouse creeping into my fucking head.”
I groan, and though I don’t understand it, I feel like I own him. Like I can touch him at will. Say anything.
And I do.
My fingers slip to the back of his neck, and I press my naked body to his. “Then destroy me, Gustav. Because I’m not going anywhere and I don’t think you want me to.”
His lips purse together, his eyes searching mine, skeptical. I expected that. Nothing is normal or easy with him.
My body is airborne before I can gasp. I land on the bed with a bounce.
Oh my gosh.
He jerks my knees apart with gallant force, eyes on me, dark and menacing. He fists his length, eyes searing down as he strokes. When his gaze lands on my exposed pussy, my heart stutters, and my face flames.
“Hmm,” he says softly, almost reverently. “Do you know what you look like right now?”
“No,” I whisper.
“You look like an offering. A pathetic offering.”
A shiver bristles through me. He’s not wrong. I feel like a sacrifice. The California girl turned into a Russian gangster’s toy. That’s how he’s looking at me.
But I’m not pathetic.
Although my breath is unsteady, I lift my chin smugly, unflinching.
He sees through it.
“Look at your thighs shake, moyá mishka,” he taunts, then jerks my hips to the edge of the bed. “Nervous? Because you want to be the best I’ve had, don’t you?”
I swallow, and admit the truth.
“Yes. I want to be... your favorite.”
“Louder.”
”I will be the best you’ve had, Gustav.”
He chuckles darkly. “Unlikely.”
And then he spits. Right onto my slit, hot and slick. I flinch and clench as it rolls down to my opening. His thumb strokes over the skin, smearing it all over.
“Want me to lick your cunt, don’t you? But I won’t. You’re unworthy.”
I scoff, incredulous. I move to smack his hand off, but he clasps my throat, firm and immovable. I squirm, trying to shimmy free.
“Be still, or I’ll choke you until you quit.”
My eyes widen, and I freeze.
No laughing.
His thumb circles my entrance. I clench in anticipation. He finds the delicate thin skin partially covering the opening.
My hymen.
His touch pauses. When I glance up, he’s holding his bottom lip between his teeth.
It only lasts a moment before he resumes exploring. He dips in, to his first knuckle, wetting it, and oddly, he pulls out... and touches a new spot. The tight knot of nerves higher.
What is he...?
“You fight me on everything,” he says in a gravelly voice. “Fight this.”
His wet fingertip dances on my clit. Slow. Aching. Then steady.
Oh. He wants me to orgasm. The bastard. After calling me unworthy? Threatening me? Psh. This is my body, and I’ll rob myself of pleasure before giving him what he wants.
I resist with every fiber of my being, doing everything I can to ignore the small circles he’s tracing. He slides in a finger, intensifying his assault on my senses. He spits again, directly on the knot, filthy, wetting it more. Infuriating me with the fact it only arouses me further.
Come on, Peighton. I cover my face, trying to focus elsewhere.
His chuckle fills the room.
“Look at me, you rebellious thing. Or will that make it harder for you to deny your body of what it wants?”
The arrogance!
My hands drop and I meet his eyes, my jaw set tight.
Oh God, those eyes. And his hair is falling forward, shadowing the storm gray pools behind black strands. I groan, but I keep my gaze locked with his, breathing heavy through my nose.
Fighting it. Fighting him.
The pleasure is building fast, too fast. Embarrassingly fast. I tremble hard, my thighs tightening, my back arching without my permission. I literally grimace as heat floods my hips. My pussy. That spot. I’m throbbing. I grip the sheets so tightly my knuckles ache.
“Already,” he mocks gently, wearing the sexiest smirk. “My little wife is already about to cum? How pathetic, hm?”
I bite my lip, trying to hold the truth inside me.
He doesn’t allow it.
“Do not hide from me,” he says. “Let me hear you.”
My breath breaks. A soft, helpless noise escapes. A shaky, embarrassing moan.
He doesn’t laugh this time. He exhales a low grunt that sounds like restraint twisting into hunger.
Then he does something shocking.
He bends down and his perfect lips touch my clit, his tongue taking over in a moment that makes my breath stutter.
I gasp so loud it stirs me.
Holy—
That’s... incredible.
My swell of nerves pulses under his touch, and I’m sure he feels it under his tongue.
I look down, finding his eyes pinned up on me.
Yep. He feels it.
“Guess I’m worthy?” I whisper.
He sucks on my clit, then stops. Something mischievous twinkles in his eyes.
“Beg,” he murmurs low, demanding. “I know you want more. Beg.”
Humiliation burns through me. He has me wrapped around his finger.
“Um. Please...” My voice cracks, the pleasure clawing to burst free. “Please.”
“Say what you want.”
“I want... more.”
“From whom.”
“From you. You...” I say, breathless.
His mouth returns and just as fast, the room tilts. Heat floods me. Shame and desire twist into a dizzying blur.
He grabs my hips to steady me. His breath comes out sharp, ragged.
And then—
I see the universe. An inky sky that rips open with galaxies of blinding stars.
A strangled moan, brash and wild, erupts from my throat.
Holy hell.
I just orgasmed. My first orgasm.
I pant, and his name tumbles from my lips again and again.
“Oh my gosh, Gustav... Gustav.” I breathe deep, gasping. “Fuck, Gustav. That was...”
Silence.
Weird.
My eyes flutter open.
A soft, rhythmic sound fills the room.
He is whispering to himself, swearing. He swipes at his ear, as if a gnat won’t stop buzzing nearby.
I turn my head just enough to see him, hunched, pressing his palms hard to his temple, breath shaking like he is fighting something inside.
“Gustav,” I whisper, still barely coherent. I struggle to sit up, but I can’t explain it — somehow, I just know to grab his bicep and lead him on top of me. I wiggle back some, giving him room. The mattress sinks under his weight.
He stares down at me, his breath broken, eyes wild.
I whisper, “Make me yours.”
Everything has shifted. There’s no taunting. No arrogance. Just need in his eyes.
My body tenses as his tip presses to my entrance. I clench in anticipation, but my hips tilt on their own, aching to be closer, to be filled.
“You were already mine,” he says softly. “The second you came undone, I became yours.”
My jaw hinges open as pressure builds at my hymen.
He doesn’t waste time, holding his length in position as he forces it in, tearing the skin in one brutal stroke.
A sharp burn pierces up my spine, pain, white and shocking, but then his expression reflects genuine concern, and the pain melts into something else entirely.
My lungs freeze as he inches forward, my body stretching to take his formidable shaft. It feels like a steel rod invading my body, yet, it feels right too.
Because he’s looking at me like it matters.
Like I matter.
I’m not pathetic to him at this moment. I’m everything. I’m his whole world.
And the second he’s buried every inch of himself inside, he exhales a shaky breath, letting me know this isn’t just a fuck.
And then he works.
The room is silent except for the rhythm of our bodies joined together. The sensual sounds of wet skin smacking. My arousal. Our breaths. The bed. A melody of sex and discovery.
He rests back on his haunches, watching where our bodies are joined.
I’m entranced too, but my eyes watch him.
How his hands roam and touch my body. How his incredible muscles flex and work.
So much strength. Being intimate with a man really reveals how powerful they are, and I can feel it in his every thrust, even though he’s holding back. At least I think he is.
Which is good, because he is bigger than I expected. Much bigger.
I don’t know how much time has passed, but he isn’t hurrying and I am grateful for that.
Every stroke is achingly purposeful and unrushed.
Even when he moves faster, he chooses specific angles, moves my body just so, and he watches with intent.
He wants to see my reaction to everything he does.
It makes me feel safe and taken care of in a rather scary and new experience.
The moment he cums, he freezes and exhales a husky groan that is now forever burned in my memory. He collapses on me, his hard, sculpted body slick with sweat and heat. It’s incredible. I hope I did well. Did I?
Without a frame of reference, I ignore that thought — for now.
I want a kiss, and I take it from him, forcing his mouth on mine. I kiss him deep and with all the passion I am feeling.
Our lips part and he rises, slow and cautious. I sit up on my elbows, fairly disoriented as I watch him dress.
I whisper through the fog, voice small. “Thank you. For my first time.”
His eyes flicker with something raw — longing or fear, I can’t tell — before it shutters away.
He stands straight and looks at me, like I’m a riddle he can’t solve. I see the fatigue in his eyes. He’s not spiraling, but he’s not at peace. This isn’t a new problem. His madness must be as real and constant as the physical world.
That’s when I realize he didn’t marry me for intimacy, love, or even companionship. It must be purely political.
Unfortunately for his plans, there’s something broken in him, and I feel drawn to it. I have to get closer, because whatever just happened, was better than anything I hoped for. Even as he leaves my room without even a goodbye, I don’t feel discouraged.
I’m still shaking. Still in a state of euphoria and shock. A pathetic mess he left in damp sheets. I shouldn’t want him. I shouldn’t crave this. But my heart, and certainly my body, doesn’t care what I should feel.
I want him.