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“I want to be more than that.”
“You don’t—” He silences me with another kiss, pushing himself on top of me until I’m beneath him on the wooden floor. The blanket acts like a barrier around us, binding us tightly. Firelight sways behind his head above me.
He stops kissing me, catching his breath. I have a chance to press my question again, but I bite my tongue. Now isn’t the time. I want to heal him, and the only way I can think of is to unite like this. If we’re nothing but soft limbs and hot skin, our only concern bringing each other pleasure, then our other problems don’t matter.
We want to forget. It might be our last chance to do so.
“Galina,” he whispers, clutching my face in both hands. His kiss has some teeth this time. The hint of feral danger thrills me, making me thrust my hips up into him on impulse. The wind bangs on the window, but we ignore it. The storm can’t touch us.
The only issue with the blanket is it makes it a struggle to undress. Arsen pulls at my shirt to get it over my arms, then gives up, sliding his hands beneath. Decadent heat swirls through my body, making me press my knees together as I whimper.
I can’t see what we’re doing beneath the blanket. It’s a cocoon that envelops us, hiding our actions from even ourselves. Somehow this heightens everything Arsen does; his fingers are firmer, my skin awake and hypersensitive. His thumb pad brushes my right nipple, and I swear I feel the friction of the minuscule grooves embedded in his skin that identify him as him.
Wet snow pelts the glass. For an awful moment, it sounds like bullets—I tense up, trying to look. Arsen cradles me closer, bringing me back to him, to the moment, with a fervent kiss. He kneads my muscles until I’m soft again.
I can’t tell if the heat is from the nearby fire or the boiling lust building inside me. “Arsen,” I try to say his name. His mouth eats the noise away. He consumes all my groans and whimpers and heavy breathing, feeding them back to me. I’m suffocating under the blanket, but I don’t care. He pulls it over our heads, engulfing us fully.
If this really is a cocoon, I wonder what I’ll metamorphose into when he’s finished with me.
Grabbing my waist, he yanks me against his pelvis. His cock is stiff through his pants; I fumble for it, working as quickly as I can without sight. He helps me by tugging my leggings out of the way. We’re not naked, our actions similar to a pair of hasty teens trying to have sex without being caught.
His cock is heavy and hot between us. There’s so little room that he’s digging into my navel—it hurts, but in a way I luxuriate in. He’s blessed with size, but when I can’t see him at all my brain turns him even bigger. I start to breathe faster, nearly nervous with anticipation. I know he’ll fit—he has every time before—but there’s doubt in the darkness.
“Shh,” he soothes into my ear. Goose bumps prickle along my arms and thighs. “Relax. It’s fine. I promise.”
I don’t know if he’s talking about sex or something more important. My heart swells regardless. Circling my arms around his wide back, I spread my legs as much as possible under the blanket. It’s enough for him to sink the tip of his cock inside. I tighten, gasping at the surge of pure pleasure. Another inch, then another, until I lose count. He’s stuffing me to the brink. Arsen kisses my temple, then my neck, stretching me out with another push of his hips.
It’s an endless stroke. I lose all sense of time, my brain fuzzy with delicious pleasure. He’s grinding on me firmly, his stomach brushing my swollen clit. By the time he finally sinks in to his full length, I’m shaking with the need to come.
“Oh!” I sob, hugging tight to his muscular shoulders. He starts to withdraw, the friction driving me wild. I can’t budge with how we’re positioned. Unable to make him move faster or harder, I’m forced to endure the patient way he fucks me. It’s beautiful in tempo … but infuriating because I’m buzzing with a need for release. “Harder, please,” I whisper.
He doesn’t obey. He keeps his pace.
A burst of wicked heat attacks my center, moving downward until my pussy tightens. I’m fluttering inside … muscles rippling as the dam holding my orgasm breaks. He doesn’t need to go fast or hard. And he knows it. He knows if he slides into me a handful of times, it will be enough to send me over the edge.
“Yes. Yes …” I gasp. My toes curl, heels tapping the hard floor. Frozen in place as I am, I experience every tiny flex of my own pussy, every twitch of his cock. My pulse was racing before, but it stampedes now. There’s another rhythm that matches mine—his heart.
Whatever was holding him back before is gone. His jaw clenches against mine, breath hot steam on my ear. Arsen fucks me with renewed energy, like he’s just realized what he’s doing. Or he’s decided he’s done resisting the urge.
The storm raging outside has come here, inside him.
He doesn’t speak, but he makes plenty of noise. Snarls rumble in my head; growls packed with exertion roll down my spine. I’m coming again before I feel it rising up. Screaming under the blanket, sweat pouring from every pore, I let him take me the way he wants.
In the blackness, he kisses me. His lips lock on, tongue chasing mine, making shapes that don’t belong anywhere else but the secret alphabet of our desire and love. His cock stiffens deep inside me. It pulses, stretching me out further as his orgasm begins to peak. New, fresh heat fills me up when he finishes.
Gasping for air, he throws the blanket off us. His hair is a mess; mine must be a sight. Staring at me, he searches my face for something. Maybe he’s wondering if I’ve changed. Have I become a butterfly? Of course I haven’t, but he smiles anyway.
A tired smile … but a real one.
Lifting my hand, I drag my palm from one side of his face to the other. My thumb traces the corner of his eyebrow. “Earlier, you said you wanted to be more than my husband. You already are. You’re going to be the father of our baby,” I whisper. “That’s more than enough.”
His lips shift around, warning of the words that yearn to burst free. I can hear them now. I can feel them rising from his chest, across his tongue, into my ears. It’s not. That’s what he’s going to say. I’m so sure of it that when he closes his eyes, ducking his head, and does nothing but exhale, I still imagine them.
He wanted to say them. He didn’t.
I wish that made me feel better.
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