Page 58 of Keeping Ruby

Gosh, where did that thought come from?

I feel like a harlot.

He shoves the suit from my arms, before biting my nipple over my shirt. Again, my cry rings into the forest as I sink my fingers into his hair. He curses again, another feral, on-edge sound. I want to feel him against my skin. His skin, his teeth, the bite of rough fingertips—everything.

“Too many clothes,” I murmur, lust-drunk.

He laughs. The sound is like a hammer to my core. I suck in sharp air and fumble with the buttons of my flannel shirt. I don’t even care that it’s freezing out. I care only about being with this man. Shattering around him. For him.

I want to show him that he is worthy…

Tears prick my eyes as I recall his words. I feel angry, and achy, and… “Kirill.”

“Let me.” He bumps my hands out of the way, working the buttons through the holes much faster. And then his rough fingers are tugging on the cups of my bra, freeing my breasts to the cold. I gasp when his hot mouth covers one, and then the other. The cold air against the wet left behind sends a bolt to my core, and I whimper.

“Oh, God.” I moan when he slides teeth over one, palming the other. I’m riding his thigh now like the harlot I never thought I’d be. I don’t think as I find the zipper of his jacket, yanking it down and shoving cold hands up under his shirt. The hot heat of his skin warms my frozen fingertips as I explore, loving the hiss of sharp breath that escapes between his teeth, before he’s devouring my breasts again.

There is so much sensation everywhere—and yet it’s not enough. I feel so achingly, painfully, tragically empty, for this beautifully heartrending man.

I don’t think as I push my hands south to the button of his snow pants. The pop of the clip is loud, the fall of the zipper, louder.

“Wife,” he grunts. “What are you doing?”

“I—I don’t know.”

He catches my wrist. He warns, “I can only be pushed so far before I’m not stopping, Ruby.”

I hold his eyes with my own, and then I shake off his hold. I make fast work of his jeans before I push my hand into his pants to feel all of him. I’ve never touched a man like this, never seen a man fully naked before. I’m surprised to find he’s silky smooth, like hot velvet coating a steel pipe. I curl my fingers around his girth, running my hand over the length once. He looses a sound—an animalistic growl of broken will and splintered control that seizes my core in a vicelike grip. My bra snaps back into place. I gasp as he tears my hand from his pants only to rear back to yank violently at my own. He removes my snowsuit completely before he tugs my leggings to my ankles, baring me to the bitter cold, and his fiery gaze. And then he slams back down to my body, his hand between us.

Ragged breaths spear from my lungs. His lips are brutal as they cover mine, dragging all sound—every breath I release—into his lungs. He’s feasting on the very air I breathe. And then I feel it—him. His tip is thick and hot and smooth where it connects with my core, spreading me, promising pleasure and pain, and everything in between.

Tension coils my body tight, and he drags his mouth to my ear. “Relax for me, beautiful.”

I can’t. I haven’t seen him. But I felt him in my hand—and that isn’t going to fit inside me. I could hardly take two fingers last night.

Fear begins to bleed into the want. Hesitation into desire. My body trembles, but he pushes forward, pushes into me.

I cry out, but he covers my cry with his mouth, devouring it. Claiming it for himself, as he’s claimed every other part of me. As he’s claiming all of me now.

He pulls out, rubbing his tip over me from tip to base, and back again. I’m so wet, he glides over me easily again and again. I’m shivering, but I can’t be sure if it’s because of the cold or nerves.

He notches his tip a second time, and I suck in air. Then his thumb finds my clit as he sinks in a little deeper, holding himself in place there as he circles and works my clit, until I’m a whimpering mess beneath him.

Pulling back, he gazes down at me with a tender affection I’ve never seen in the eyes of a man in all my life. It’s not just in his eyes, but in every line of his face. He almost looks torn, caught up in the sweet pain of it.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. Before I can ask why he would be sorry, he drops his mouth to mine and thrusts in deep, bottoming out inside me with a shredding kind of violence that has my limbs seizing, locking around his body as I grip him to me, begging him silently not to move as he kisses me through my breathless whimpers.

He’s so big where he’s rooted himself inside me. So hot, I feel like he might split me in two. It hurts so much. Tears spring to my eyes as he grips me to him, holding me tenderly in silent apology for his rough invasion.

He doesn’t stop kissing me, his lips tender and soft in such astonishing opposition to the thickness that impales me. Slowly, the pinching pain lessens to give way for something warm and demanding to grow in my core. Suddenly, I need him to move. I need him to move like a drowning person needs air.

It takes only one shift of my hips for him to pull back slowly, and sink in deep again. I release a hot breath in a puff of white between us as he does it again, slow, and again. Sweat beads his brow, even in the chill. His body trembles. He’s holding back, I realize.

And, God, I don’t want him to.

I let my legs fall open, and watch a spark ignite in the dark of his eyes. And then he rears back, his big hands gripping my waist to pin me in place as he thrusts hungrily into me, filling me, and stretching me, with every rough thrust. Stars dance behind my eyes as moans of pleasure and pain tumble between us. The sounds of sex fill the forest. Slapping skin, slippery wet, his rough groans the bass to my symphony of moans.

I feel like I’m coming apart. I’m unstitched and untethered, a balloon floating in the wind—a kite dancing on the string he holds. My puppeteer.

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