He knows exactly what he is doing. Worse, he knows exactly what he does to me.
Every time I turn my face away, overwhelmed by the intimacy that I find in his eyes, he brings me back. A hand on my jaw. A quiet command in Russian. My name.
The pleasure builds slowly at first, deep and relentless, coiling tighter with every movement of his body against mine. I try to hold on to the last bit of control I have left, but Victor feels the attempt and lowers himself closer, his mouth brushing mine as he speaks.
“Do not run from me,” he says. “Ever.”
Then his mouth takes mine, hot, desperate, and all-consuming. The kind of kiss that feels like an argument and a promise all at once. I kiss him back just as hard. Then he drives into me, pushing me past my limits in all the best ways.
My body tightens around him, at the edge of release, and I break away from his mouth with a cry. His hand slides beneath myback, pulling me into him, keeping me there so he can hammer himself into me deeper than I think possible.
“That’s it,” he says against my mouth. “Break for me.”
I come apart with his name on my lips, my body arching into his, every nerve on fire as I tip over the edge. And within seconds, he is there too.
The feeling that of pure ecstasy. I feel it happen, the sudden harshness of his breath. In the way his hand fists in the sheets beside my head. His body dropping heavy against mine a moment later.
Neither of us moves for a few moments, attempting to pull ourselves back together. The room quiet except for our breathing and the faint hush of the city beyond the windows. Victor’s weight heavy against me, but not crushing, comforting. One hand braced beside my head, the other still curved beneath my back.
I turn my face into his neck and breathe him in.
He presses a kiss to my temple, then another to my cheek. Then my mouth, softer, slower. Savoring.
When he finally shifts, pulling me against his chest beneath the sheets as he rolls onto his back. I make a small sound of protest.
“You’re objecting?” he asks coyly, voice rough with satisfaction.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You didn’t have too. You made a sound.”
“That wasn’t legally binding.” I protest as I nuzzle into his shoulder.
A low laugh moves through his chest, our naked bodies winding together as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. His fingers move through my hair, slow and tender.
"Moya," Victor says, into my hair. Half asleep, his voice lower than usual, the accent more present.
I press closer.
"Sleep," I say.
I stay awake a little longer, in the dark, in the quiet, listening to the city and his breathing and the specific sound of a life that is finally, permanently, mine.
Then I close my eyes. Content that I’m exactly where I’m intended to be.
The End?
