Page 4 of Jetmir

She muttered something in Spanish, but I was too far gone now to comprehend. My body on top of hers, I supported myself with my forearms, our chests pressed together as my hips dug into her inner thighs.

I thrust into her over and over and over again, burying myself in my wife’s welcoming pussy.

“More,” she urged, and I obliged.

I was driving into her so hard that for the first time in my life every thought in my mind vanished. I was lost to myself, lost to her, and lost to the world. Nothing except the feel of her wet cunt existed.

She was fucking perfection, and I didn’t give a fuck about anything else but filling my woman with my cum.

Words in Russian, Albanian, and English spilled from my mouth as I rutted into her. I had no fucking idea what I was saying. I think at one point I might have told her my real name. But she was just as far gone and spluttering her own unintelligible words.

I fucked her harder and deeper. Faster. I was so close. So fucking close. I had to get deeper inside her, even though I knew there was no physical way. I wanted to imprint onto her marrow. I wanted to make it so she would never leave me. Could never leave me.

I took her mouth, kissing her violently. Worshipping her. I could hardly breathe but I refused to stop, feeling her tighten and writhe beneath me.

And then she broke with my name on her lips. She bucked, crying out against my mouth, her fingernails digging into my skin as we rode out her orgasm together.

All the while I kept thrusting into her through her orgasm until all that remained was following her over the edge. My dick pulsed, matching the thundering beat of my heart in my ears.

I gave a final few thrusts, milking every last throb out of my climax. My cum filled her and then was spilling everywhere, leaking onto the altar.

She wore a lazy, sated smile and I raised myself up on my hands to look down at her.

“Are you okay, wife?”

“Never better,” she hummed, glowing like an angel. “I love you, Thorne.”

“Until death do us part, my angel,” I promised.

CHAPTER ONE

ANYA

A Few Weeks Later

Muffled voices woke me up.

I blinked my eyes, trying to determine whether I was really hearing them or dreaming. But then those voices got angrier and sharper, dragging me out of the fog of sleep.

I shot up straight in bed, my eyes wide open now.

For several seconds, I stared straight ahead, trying to identify the voices. Who would be visiting Throne and me in our little piece of heaven here in Albania? Nobody knew us here.

I pushed the covers aside and swung my feet off the bed to get up. The room tilted, forcing me to grip the edge of the mattress until the dizziness passed. I looked down at myself. I was still wearing the pale silk nightgown Thorne had given me, my hair falling loose over one shoulder.

Then I heard a voice I recognized. Gabriel.

What was my brother doing here? It couldn’t be him. Why would he come without calling first?

My family was blissfully unaware of my relationship with Thorne. As far as they were concerned, I was here in Albania as part of my curriculum to take exotic and unique photographs. The fact that it was partly true offset my lies. At least that was what I told myself.

I was out of the bedroom, slipping into the hallway barefoot, following the sound of shouting toward the foyer. I was convinced my ears were deceiving me.

My heart hammered harder with every step I took closer to the foyer.

Somehow the house seemed to vibrate with anger that traveled through the air. My fingers curled against the wall as I heard crash after crash, followed by many angry words.

“Where is my sister?” Gabriel roared.