Page 35 of The Pakhan's Bride
Her pulse jumps, her breath catches. She's not ready to give up, not even now. And then, even though the animal in me wants to go hard and fast, I slow down so I can take my time, the way I used to in Paris. I taste her skin, trace every scar and dimple, reacquaint myself with the topography of her body.
She tries to talk, but I silence her with my mouth, first the lips, then the jaw, then lower. I move south, tongue circling her left nipple, then biting, gentle but with enough pressure to make her gasp. She arches, presses up into me, but I pin her down, hand tight around her wrists. "Let go," she says, voice strangled.
I shake my head. "No."
I pull my cock out and slide my free hand down her torso, flat and hard, fingers splayed. I slide two fingers in, slowly, and her hips buck off the bed. Her thighs clamp around my wrist, vise tight, but I keep the pace torturously slow.
She tries to twist free, but I know every angle, every cheat. I keep her pinned, keep her waiting.
"Say it," I whisper, my mouth close to her ear.
She shakes her head, lips clamped shut.
I thumb her clit, lazy circles, watching her face go from disdain to desperation in six seconds flat.
"Say it," I repeat, pushing harder, curling my fingers inside her. She whimpers, a sound so alien on her that it almost makes me stop. But I don't.
Finally, she breaks. "Please," she hisses. "Please."
I slow down, almost stop, and her eyes snap open. She's furious, and I love her for it.
"Not enough," I murmur.
She bites her own lip, hard enough to draw blood. "Konstantin, fuck you."
I remove my hand, wipe it on her thigh, then flip her over. Her arms twist above her head, and I pin them while I explore the curve of her spine, the dip at the base, the perfect roundness of her ass.
She hates losing. She hates being exposed. She hates that she's dripping on my thigh, betraying every word that comes out of her mouth. I bend to her ear, whisper, "You're beautiful like this." In Russian, then again in French.
She shivers, a line of goosebumps racing up her back. I use my tongue on her, slow, starting at the nape and working all the way down, then back up. She moans into the pillow, a low, throaty sound. When I reach the small of her back, I pause, then bite, hard enough to leave a mark. She bucks, but I hold her down, one hand on her shoulder, one bracing her hip.
I slide in slowly, inch by inch, feeling her stretch and tighten around me. The silk sheets bunch under her fists, the sound of them tearing a counterpoint to her moans. I fuck her slow, then fast, then slow again, never letting her set the pace. With every thrust, I murmur something in Russian. Sometimes it's nonsense. Sometimes it's endearments. Sometimes it's a threat.
I slap her ass, just once, and she yelps, then laughs, breathless. "You're insane," she says.
I lean over, lips at her ear. "You love it."
She does. Even in Paris, even when she pretended to be above it, she loved being devoured. She loved the way I could make her lose track of the world outside our hotel room, the way her plans and plots and betrayals faded into background noise until the only thing left was the need. I pull out, flip her onto her back, and slide in again, this time face to face. I want to see her eyes when she comes. I want her to remember this.
She wraps her legs around me, hooks her ankles behind my back, and pulls me in deeper. Her nails claw at my shoulders, then down my back, leaving stinging trails. She opens her mouth, and I kiss her, swallowing her cry as she comes, all muscles and fire and wet heat.
I keep going, relentless, and she comes again, shaking, nails digging into my scalp. The sounds she makes are not human. They are pure animal. "Let me…." she begs. "Please…"
I pull out once more because I want to see that look of joy on her face, that wild, impossibly pretty greed that follows immediately as she rolls, twists, and pins me down to the bed and climbs on top. She reaches behind her, grabs my cock, lines it up, and sinks down in one motion. She's tight, impossibly tight, and the pain is perfect. She rides me slowly, hips rolling, her hands in her hair as she gyrates on my cock. She controls the depth, the angle, everything. I let her. I want to see how long she can hold out.
She leans forward, hair falling over her eyes, sweat beading on her upper lip. She rides me, slow and deep, grinding her clit against my pubic bone, over and over. Every time she moans, it gets louder. I try to thrust up, but she slaps my chest. "No," she says. "Not yet."
She speeds up, chasing her own climax. Her nails leave crescent moons in my skin. I watch her face—lips parted, eyes half-lidded, cheeks flushed. When she comes, it's a full-body quake, her hands clutching at my throat, her cunt clenching so hard it almost hurts.
I could come right then, but I hold back. I want to see her fall apart again. She collapses onto my chest, panting, then laughs, ragged and real.
"Happy now?" she says.
"Almost," I reply.
I flip her, fast, and she doesn't resist. I want her on her knees, hands braced against the headboard, hair falling down her back. I fuck her slowly, savoring the way she tries to meet every thrust, the way her ass bounces with every impact. I reach around, thumb her clit, pinch it until she gasps.
She tries to twist away, but I pin her with one hand, fucking her harder, faster, until she's sobbing, until she's begging. I don't stop. I want her ruined, limp and shaking, every muscle spent.
