Page 7 of The Pakhan's Secret Baby

Those wide, dazed eyes lock onto mine and the sight nearly undoes me.

I thrust harder, hips snapping forward with more force.

“Oh God... oh fuck—” She claws at my back, nails digging into my skin. Her heels dig into my ass, pulling me deeper with every stroke.

“That’s it. Take every inch like a good girl.” I lean down and claim her mouth in a filthy kiss, swallowing her cries as I pound into her. I can feel her tightening, fluttering, right on the brink.

“I’m—I’m gonna—” she gasps against my lips.

“Come,” I growl. “Let me feel it.”

Emory shatters hard. Her pussy clamps down around me like a vise, pulsing in powerful waves as she comes with a broken scream.

Her whole body bows off the bed, thighs shaking violently around my waist.

Fresh wetness floods my cock, soaking my balls as her walls milk me relentlessly.

Her face is pure ecstasy—mouth open, eyes rolled back, tears of pleasure clinging to her lashes.

It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

Then the pressure at the base of my spine explodes.

“Fuck—” I grunt as I bury myself to the hilt and groan. My cock throbs violently inside her as thick ropes of cum spill deep into her clenching pussy.

I keep thrusting through it, grinding hard, filling her until it leaks out around my shaft with every stroke.

The pleasure is blinding, savage, ripping through every muscle in my body as I empty myself completely.

We stay locked together, panting, trembling.

Her pussy continues to flutter weakly around me, drawing out the last drops of my release, until I collapse over her, careful not to crush her, and press my forehead to hers.

I kiss her lazily as we both come down.

My cum is already dripping out of her onto the silk beneath us, and her heart is pounding so hard I'm not sure if she's shaking me or I’m shaking her.

I stay inside her for a long moment, savoring the way her body still flutters around me.

Then I slowly pull out and roll to the side, pulling her against my chest.

The motion lights click off, plunging the suite into near darkness, and only a faint glow from the one-way glass window filters in.

Emory curls into me, still catching her breath, her cheek pressed to my shoulder.

I keep one arm wrapped around her as I pull the top sheet over us to cover her exposed skin.

God, that was incredible, and I'd go again in ten minutes if she was up for it.

“How did you know the Surikov?” I ask quietly. “Most girls your age wouldn’t recognize Boyarina Morozova, let alone know it’s the original.” It surprised me seeing her so stunned at the sight of that painting. When I procured it, it was under… let’s just say, forceful tactics. The one hanging in Moscow is a replica.

She lets out a soft, tired laugh. “I'm an art history major. I wrote a paper on Russian Realism last year. Surikov was my favorite. The way he captures defiance and tragedy in one frozen moment…” She sighs. “I never thought I’d see the real thing in a nightclub. I still can’t believe it’s here.”

"I can't believe you're here," I tell her, letting my thumb strum her arm as I readjust myself. She is so young; I'm certain her father is out there somewhere wondering where the hell she is and who she's with.

“In my art history classes we spent almost a whole semester on the Peredvizhniki,” Emory says softly, her breath dusting my skin. “I visited every museum I could just to see the originals. That’s when I really fell in love with painting and Russian history.”

I smile in the dark. “You sound like you actually enjoyed it.”