Page 67 of Forced to Marry the Russian Pakhan
I nod, rocking my hips experimentally. “Mm-hmm.” I reach over and squeeze his ass, pulling myself closer.
He looks surprised, then exuberant.
He starts slow. Torturously slow.
Each thrust is shallow, almost teasing—just enough to make me feel the stretch, the pressure, the aching promise of what’s to come. My breath catches, every nerve on edge, every muscle coiled tight as he moves inside me with infuriating control.
Ripples of pleasure begin to build, delicate at first, like silk dragging across skin. But they don’t stay delicate. With each slow slide, the tension climbs. My body begins to open around him, welcome him, crave him.
And then he changes.
The rhythm shifts. Deepens.
He draws back, then drives in hard—and suddenly the ripples become rivers, wild and fast and consuming. Sparks shoot up my spine. My hands scramble for purchase—his shoulders, the table, anything—because my body is no longer my own.
“God, Yulia,” he groans, voice wrecked against my neck. “You feel… fuck, you feel like heaven. So fucking perfect.”
The words are a spark to gasoline.
I whimper, raw and breathless, and roll my hips to meet his next thrust. I want to feel all of him, every inch, every pulse, buried so deep inside me that I can’t tell where I end and he begins. His name tumbles from my lips like a prayer, like a plea.
But it’s not enough.
I want more of the man who makes me forget the world outside this room.
As if reading my mind, Trifon suddenly pulls out completely. I make a noise of protest, but he silences me with a quick, hard kiss.
“Turn around. Bend over the table.”
My pulse jumps at his tone, turns me on even more, if possible. I slide off the table on shaky legs and turn, bending forward until my breasts squeeze against the cool surface.
Trifon’s hand skims up my spine, then back down to cup my ass. “So beautiful,” he murmurs, squeezing appreciatively. “I’ve wanted you like this since the first fucking moment I saw you.”
The confession burns through me. Before I can even catch my breath, his fingers tangle in my hair, tugging gently but firmly, tilting my head back just enough to expose my throat. The stretch sends a violent shiver down my spine. I’m completely bared—offered up and opened in ways that feel more emotional than physical.
His other hand moves between us, guiding his cock to my entrance—just the tip, nudging against me, circling, teasing. I rock back, desperate, but he stays maddeningly still.
“Tell me you want this,” he rasps against my ear, voice dark and demanding.
“I want it,” I gasp, breath ragged. “Please, Trifon. Please—”
He doesn’t wait another second.
He thrusts into me in one hard, smooth stroke, filling me to the hilt in a single, brutal glide. I cry out, the sound torn from my throat as the deeper angle slams into a place that makes my knees nearly buckle. His grip in my hair tightens as he begins to move—fast, punishing, relentless.
“Fuck, Yulia,” he growls, rutting into me like he can’t get deep enough. “You feel like a fucking dream. Like you were made for me.”
I can’t think. Can’t breathe. All I know is the friction, the stretch, the obscene sounds of skin meeting skin and his breath hot against my neck. His hand snakes around my waist, down between my legs—and then I feel his fingers on my clit, circling with brutal precision.
My body jerks.
The dual sensation is too much. His cock pounding into me, his fingers working me in tight, merciless circles—it’soverwhelming. My orgasm coils fast and sharp, dragging me toward the edge so quickly I can’t stop it.
“Come for me,” he snarls, fucking me harder, deeper. “Let me feel you fall apart around my cock.”
His words detonate something inside me.
“Fuck, Trif—” I shatter, and my body clamps down around him, pulsing in wave after wave as I cry out, nails digging into the table for balance. The pleasure is incandescent, searing through every nerve as I tremble in his arms.
