"I was bored," I breathe, "had to do something." I pout even as my hips chase his hand.
He laughs once—low, dangerous—then hauls me up like I weigh nothing. My back hits the plaster again. My legs wrap around his hips automatically. The sound of his belt coming undone is obscene. Zipper rasping. Then the hot, heavy weight of his cock slapping against my slick lips.
He lines up and thrusts in one brutal, relentless stroke.
I cry out, head cracking back against the plaster as he splits me open. The stretch burns—thick, deep, perfect. I need time to adjust. He doesn't give it. He fucks me until I catch up, hips snapping hard and fast, driving me up the wall with every thrustof his pelvis. The wet, filthy sound of him pounding into my soaked channel fills the penthouse.
"Look at me," he says.
I force my eyes open. His eyes darken, almost black, locked on mine with an intensity that makes my stomach flip.
"You think this is a game?" he grunts, pounding harder, the head of his cock dragging against that spot inside me that makes my vision blur. "You think I come home in the middle of the fucking day for anyone?"
"No—" My voice breaks. My nails dig into the back of his neck. "Just me."
"That's right." One hand drops between us. His thumb finds my clit and rubs tight, vicious circles. " Tell me who you belong to. Say it."
"You," I gasp, already trembling. "Fuck—Mikhail—you—"
He rewards me by fucking me harder, the wet slap of skin loud and shameless. My thighs shake around his waist. I feel myself getting tighter, wetter, the pressure coiling low and brutal.
"Come," he orders, voice rough. "Now."
Pleasure tears through me so hard my knees almost give out.
I lose the ability to breathe. My body locks down on his cock, pulsing in thick, rhythmic waves while I scream his name. My whole body jerks in his grip. Pleasure crashes over me in hot, relentless pulses until I'm shaking and gasping, forehead pressed to his.
He doesn't stop.
He fucks me through it, chasing his own with short, savage thrusts. Two more brutal strokes and he buries himself to the hilt, growling my name into my neck as he comes. I feel every thick pulse of him—hot, deep, flooding me until it leaks out around his cock and down my thighs.
For a long moment, the only sound is our ragged breathing.
He doesn't pull out. He stays buried inside me, forehead resting against mine, one hand still gripping my thigh like he's afraid I'll disappear. I feel his heart hammering against my chest. Feel him softening, still thick, still deep, as we settle.
"I came to take you to lunch," he says eventually, voice hoarse.
A breathless, wrecked laugh escapes me. "Yeah? Is that what this was? A lunch reservation?"
His mouth curves against my temple, almost a smile. "Clean up. We leave in fifteen."
He finally lowers me, pulling out carefully. His seed trickles down my inner thigh. Mikhail watches it with dark, satisfied eyes, then drags two fingers through the mess and pushes it back inside me.
"Keep that in there until after lunch," he murmurs. "Or I'll bend you over the restaurant table."
My breath catches.
He tucks himself away, zips up, and gives me that cool, unreadable look that always sets my blood on fire.
"Go."
I walk on shaky legs toward the bathroom, his shirt still unbuttoned, warmth still leaking down my thighs. He licks his lips when I glance back.
No way we're making that reservation on time.
The restaurant is in an upscale district, a sort of haute-cuisine spot that makes me nervous.How much does food here cost? The maître d' knows Mikhail by sight, not by name, which means he didn't need a reservation. He leads us past the main floor to a private room in the back—wine-colored velvet, a single window looking out onto the street, enough space that I can breathe but not enough that I can escape the weight of Mikhail's attention.
I order the steak frites because I like the idea of the fancy version of steak and fries. Mikhail folds his menu and has the same. He orders a dark soda. It arrives in an ice-frosted mugwith a slice of lemon. It's so bizarrely normal that I almost question my sanity, watching the most feared man in the city wrap his scarred fingers around a sweating glass of cola.
