Page 160 of Terror at the Gates

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

Zahariev tore away, and I opened my eyes in time to watch him come. The first release was a fucking jet. It spattered across my stomach and breasts. The second was much less intense, and the final was a few drops. He groaned through it all, and the sound made me want to fuck him again, but I didn’t think my body would cooperate, at least not this soon.

When Zahariev had finished, he looked at me.

“God, you are so fucking hot.”

He leaned down and kissed me, tongue driving into my mouth with the same desperation he’d had at the start of this. He rolled onto his back and brought me with him.

He held me tight, and we stayed like that, languidly kissing and touching. I liked it more than fucking. It was unhurried appreciation. It was worship between two lovers. It was a language I had never known before this moment but said everything I couldn’t.

That was when I realized I was wrong, that there was no difference between what I wanted and what I would choose.

The answer had always been Zahariev.

***

Zahariev left the bed first. I was almost asleep, which was why it startled me. I assumed he was headed to the bathroom, so I didn’t ask what he was doing, but then I heard the loud gush from my high-pressured faucet, and I knew he was running a bath.

Despite feeling like I literally had no bones, my curiosity got the best of me, and I dragged myself out of bed.

Zahariev was sitting on the edge of the tub, dipping his hand into the water.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“I thought we should take a bath before we head back,” he said.

I raised a brow. “We? Zahariev,youwill barely fit in that tub.”

“Then I’ll just have to hold you real close,” he said.

I smiled at him and approached. He wrapped his arms around my waist, and I ran my fingers through his hair, dragging his mouth to mine. I wondered if our intimacy would continue beyond these apartment walls. There was too much between us to share just one night together.

Zahariev turned off the water and got into the bath first. He’d filled it too full, so when I sat between his legs, it spilled over the edge.

“We’ll probably fall through the floor in a few minutes,” Zahariev said as I settled against his chest.

“Hey, no one’s allowed to insult my apartment except me,” I said.

Zahariev chuckled, his arms tightening around me.

“I’m not insulting it,” he said, kissing my neck. “I’m quite fond of it.”

“Even the bed?” I asked.

He’d bitched earlier about a spring digging into his shoulder blade.

“Only because it’s where I fucked you first,” he said.

He moved his hands to my breasts. I arched against him, resting my head on his shoulder. He captured my mouth in a slow kiss. Every slide of his tongue reached a different part of me—coaxing, kindling, feeding desire. His hands moved over my slippery skin, down my stomach to my knees, which he pulled apart and brought to my chest.

“You are unreal,” he said, smoothing his hands between my thighs before sliding his fingers up and down my labia. His middle finger grazed my opening, from the base of my clit to the very bottom. With each pass, he went a little deeper.

Unlike his kiss, which had enticed me to unwind, this had my muscles tensing. Everything became hard and swollen with need.

“I can’t stop wondering how often you’ve been this wet for me.” His tone was low and rough, grazing my skin with every breath.

“It’s not like I wasn’t obvious about it,” I said. “I begged you to fuck me.”

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