That gives me a filthy little burst of satisfaction.
Then he catches my wrist, not stopping me, just slowing me down enough to keep me from turning this into something else.
“I need to be inside you,” he grits out.
I nod once. That’s all.
He rolls on the condom with quick, practiced movements and then comes back over me. One hand slides under my thigh, lifting it higher around his waist. The head of his cock presses against me.
I inhale sharply.
He looks at my face. “Tell me to stop.”
I don’t. I pull him closer with my leg instead.
He settles between my thighs and everything in me goes suddenly still.
Not because I don’t want him. God, I do. I want him so badly it aches. But this is different now. Five years is a long time. Fiveyears of wanting him in memory is not the same thing as having him here, heavy over me, real and warm and looking at me like he can see every thought I’m trying not to have.
He must feel the change in me, because he stops.
His hand slides up my side, slower now, steadier. He looks down at my face, then lower, at the way my body tightens under his.
“What is it?” he asks, and his voice has changed too. Less heat, more care. That almost undoes me more than anything else.
I shake my head, but my body has already betrayed me. “It’s been a long time.”
His eyes hold mine. He understands faster than I expect. Not just the words. The truth under them.
“How long?”
I swallow. “Since you.”
For a second he says nothing. His whole face shifts, something rougher and quieter moving through it at once. Then he leans down and kisses me, not hard this time, not hungry, just deep and slow and devastatingly gentle.
“Katerina,” he says against my mouth, one hand smoothing over my thigh, “look at me.”
I do.
“We stop if you want to stop.”
I shake my head again, more certain this time.
His thumb brushes my cheek. “Then let me take care of you.”
And when he presses forward after that, he does it slowly, watching my face the whole time, giving me time for the stretch, for the shock of him, for the emotion of it to settle. It still feels intense, almost too much at first, and I know he catches that too, because he murmurs my name and kisses me again, patient where he never used to be, until the discomfort eases and all that’s left is him, finally, after all these years, inside me again.
I moan against his throat, my nails digging into his shoulders, and he goes still halfway like he’s trying not to lose his mind too early.
“Fuck,” he says under his breath.
I almost laugh. “You too?”
That breaks something in him.
He buries himself fully and kisses me hard enough to steal the rest of the joke. Then he starts moving.
Deep. Slow. Controlled for about ten seconds.
