Page 30 of The Russian's Forced Bride
I nodded. “But…I’m a virgin.”
His hands, which had been cradling my tender breasts, now moved to my cheeks. “I’ll be gentle, I promise.”
He didn’t need to promise me. I already trusted him.
In one swoop, he lifted me off the ground. I wrapped my hands around his neck as he took me up the stairs to our bedroom, where I had moved out of.
And without bothering to shut the doors, he lay me on the bed that squeaked gently, hovering above my almost naked form, which was barely covered by my robe.
My cheeks burned as he began to slip off my robe, his eyes all the while trained on me.
“It’s okay,” he assured me. “You’re beautiful,kroshka.”
And with a swift tug, the bare body was exposed before him. He slowly drank in every inch of my body, his gaze darkening as his eyes went lower, and using his hands, he parted my legs open and knelt between them, sticking two fingers right into my opening, which had already begun to pool.
I let out a gasp as his hands began to stroke me gently while he straddled me, and his mouth was placed atop one of my breasts as his tongue swept over it.
My breaths became more erratic with each movement, his voice leading me through everything, asking if I was okay, but I could barely hear him, only nodding whenever he asked if I felt good.
And when he was done stroking me, he bent over my raised knees and ran his tongue along my folds, now sopping wet. I let out a cry of pleasure as he licked me, his tongue savoring my juices, delving deep until I felt like I couldn’t control my body’s movements. My hips jerked violently, and when he felt I was fully ready for him, he peeled off his clothes.
I dazedly watched his actions, the sides of my mouth drooling as I stared at his hardened length while my knees stayed raised.
And while once again hovering over me, he grabbed my face, pressing his lips against mine while he slowly inched into me. As the tip of his cock made contact with my wet opening, I gasped his name, and he continued pushing into me.
A sharp pain pierced through my spine, a building pressure that eventually exploded into a sensation so pleasurable that I could hardly put it into words. When he was fully inside me, he began to thrust his hips against mine, moaning my name like he was drunk.
His movements were slow as he urged me to move, grind my hips against him, and I obliged, arching my back against his bed as he continued to edge deeper into me.
“You’re so tight,kroshka,” he moaned, our flesh slapping together.
I continued to move my hips while he kissed me. Tasting my saltiness on his lips, I whimpered, unable to contain what I was feeling.
And then he moved faster, pounding and pounding. With each thrust, the ball of heat forming in my stomach tightened further. He kept moving, and my hands clawed his tattooed back, my nails digging into his skin.
And after a final thrust, and with our heavy breathing filling the room, he slipped out, releasing himself. At the same time, his fingers found my clit, twisting and teasing it until a ragged gasp was torn from my lips. A wave of warmth washed over me, and I found myself thrusting against his hand, riding out the last of my climax.
Ropes of his cum covered my stomach and legs. After one final lick from my folds up to my belly button—mixing both of our juices on his tongue—he lay on the bed beside me and grabbed my body, which trembled with the aftereffects of my orgasm.
“You were so good,kroshka,” he whispered into my ear, pressing his lips against my cheek. “So fucking good.”
Having him inside me was indescribable—better than I could’ve ever imagined.
As he held my naked body, which kept shivering against his, I realized how doomed I was.
If I couldn’t stop thinking about him before, I was certain that this was the beginning of my obsession with him.
Chapter 9 – Rafael
It’s been three weeks.
Three weeks since Arlette and I got married. And two weeks since I officially claimed her as mine. I’d fucked countless women my whole life, but I’d never gotten the level of satisfaction that I received from Arlette. I had always craved something more until she came into the picture.
Mine. I never thought it was possible, but after we made love, my feelings for her intensified. They twisted into something neurotic and manic until I was sure I’d do anything for her. She had that much control over me, whether I liked it or not.
I knew it was unhealthy for me—my obsession with her, that is. For us, and mostly for her. It never ended well when I fixed my attention on something. She wasn’t an object, but I had developed a primal need for her that couldn’t be controlled.
One that could even lead to her own death.
