I look at her. She moves closer, kneeling behind me, and rests her hands on my shoulders. Her fingers press into the tight muscle there, careful at first, then firmer when I don’t stop her.
“You’re tense,” she says.
“I had a long day.”
“Then come to bed.”
“Is that an order?”
Her mouth touches the back of my neck.
My eyes close.
“No,” she says. “A suggestion.”
Her hand slides down my chest. Then lower. My cock hardens under her palm, and I hear her smile against my skin.
“Anya.”
“You sound tired.”
“I am.”
“I’ll do the work.”
She does. She pushes me back onto the bed, climbs over me, and takes me in her mouth with a shy determination that turns filthy as soon as she realizes what it does to me. By the time I stop her and pull her up my body, she’s laughing under her breath, proud of herself.
Then she sinks onto my cock and rides me slowly until neither of us is laughing.
After, she lies beside me, fingers tracing old scars on my ribs. “Who gave you this one?” she asks.
“Knife.”
“I assumed it wasn’t a gardening accident.”
I look down at her. She looks back, innocent and not innocent at all.
“You’re becoming disrespectful,” I say.
“I learned from you.”
“That’s concerning.”
She smiles.
There it is. That smile. I touch her face before I can stop myself.
Her expression softens immediately, and for a second, the room goes still.
The next morning, she rides Buran again, without me holding the bridle. The horse moves beneath her, powerful and difficult, but she sits straight, calm hands, focused eyes. I stand near the fence while the stableman watches with open disbelief.
“She has good instincts,” he says.
“Yes.”
“She trusts him.”
“No,” I say. “She understands him.”
