Page 59 of Nothing More

He got his mouth on her breasts, suckled the tips and bit at her nipples, until they were wet and tender. She bit her knuckles to hold back the little sounds that built in her throat, her chest fluttering and surging beneath his tongue as her breathing hitched.

He trailed little bites down her ribs, where small, purple bruises would bloom in the days to come. Traced her navel with his tongue. Then shouldered her thighs apart and latched onto her sex; kissed her there as rudely and forcefully as he’d kissed her mouth.

Raven’s eyes rolled back in her head. She pressed her head back into the pillow and rolled her hips, ground up shamelessly against his mouth. His tongue was inside her, but it wasn’t enough; all the nerves down there were lit up like Christmas, bright darts of pleasure that left her thighs clamping down on his head…but she wanted to befilled. Wanted to be properly fucked. It had been so long, and he was so good at everything else. She could only imagine…and, oh, his lips, his nose bumping her clit…she was…

She was going to come again.

Unacceptable.

Through sheer dint of will, she managed to get a hand tangled in his hair, and she tugged hard. “Wait. Wait, wait, wait.”

He lifted off of her with a lewd, wet sound, and looked up at her with slick mouth, and black, dilated eyes. He breathed harshly, and scowled at the interruption.

Raven put her foot on his shoulder and pushed. “Take your clothes off. Take your clothes offnow.”

He stared at her a moment, and when he blinked, she swore his eyes flashed like a cat’s. His jaw clenched and, wordlessly, he sat back, and then got to his feet. He stripped, unshowy and efficient, holding her gaze the whole time.

She was the one who broke eye contact when his tattoos came out. He was covered in ink: intricate, overlapping vignettes that connected to one another in strange ways: a field of flowers folded over the onion domes of St. Peter’s Basilica; a crowd of tree trunks that spanned the width of his chest, eyes peering between; a woman brandished a sword on his ribcage, the New York skyline petering out from the hem of her dress. The wolves on his arm she’d seen before. There was a bear, also, snarling over his shoulder. The double-headed eagle of the tzars. They were disguises, she realized: detailed, heavy work done to hide his mafia tats, the Cyrillic lettering and symbols of his bratva transformed, rather than blacked over with solid bars of ink.

When he stepped out of his jeans and climbed back onto the bed between her still-open thighs, she noticed that his nipples were pierced with little silver-black hoops.

And that he was hung.

Delightful.

“Turn over.”

She blinked and glanced up to see that his jaw was still tight, eyes still flashing. He looked…not angry, but fierce. Firm. Like he wasn’t in the mood for negotiations.

“What?” she asked, her mounting excitement twisting into something darker.

Kneeling there on her mattress, he put his hands on his hips, which threw all his tats into stark relief as muscle shifted beneath them. “If you want me to fuck you, turn over.”

She blinked some more. A chill rippled across her skin, pleasurably tight. The cheek of him, the absolute bollocks.

“Is that an order?”

“Da.”

She took a moment. Breathed. Considered.

Then she rolled over. Who knew when she’d get the chance at this – at him – again. She’d sunk this far, might as well enjoy the full show.

But she said, “I can’t believe you, really. You’re so–”

He gripped her hips bruising-tight, hiked her hips up to the angle she liked, and pushed straight in, no pretense, no teasing, no further prep. She was surprised – but she was ready, though. God, was she ready. Her body gave, and he thrust in to the hilt on one inexorable slide, and the stretch was perfect.

Raven dropped her face into her pillow, gripped the sheets with both hands, and hung on for the ride.

He started up a steady, forceful pace right away, hips snapping hard, skin slapping skin. He pulled her backward onto his cock with each thrust, fingertips digging into her hipbones. He adjusted the angle, altered his forward movement, and hit a place inside of her that left her biting the pillowcase, eyes brimming with tears. It felt so good, so intense, that it nearly hurt.

It seemed to go on and on, until she was barely coherent.

Then he thrust in and ground against her; grunted; let a hand slide up to grip her shoulder and hold her back flush against him.

He’d come.

Inside her, the bastard, he’dcome inside her…and oh, God, wasn’t that hot? The knowledge, the thought that he’d found his release in her, was the thing that finally tipped her over the edge into oblivion.

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