Page 51 of Bred By the Tsar

I shift again — to ease the ache, I tell myself, a total lie — and he hardens.

Just like that. One small movement of my hips and I feel him swell inside me, thickening, filling the ache instead of soothing it, and a rough sound rumbles out of his chest against my spine.

"Careful," he says, voice wrecked with sleep, lower than I've ever heard it. "Do that again and I'll take it as an invitation."

"Maybe it is." I don't recognize my own voice either. Brave. Wanting.

His arm tightens. His hand slides down, flat over my lower belly, pressing — like he's holding himself inside me from the outside, like he's thinking about what he said last night, going to put my child in you, and the thought lights me up from the inside out.

"You're sore," he murmurs into my hair. "I felt you flinch."

"I don't care."

“I do.” But he’s already moving — slow, so slow, barely more than a roll of his hips, a deep unhurried grind that doesn’t ask anything of my sore body except to feel, and oh, I feel it, I feel all of it, every drag and press magnified a hundred times by a body that’s never done this before and doesn’t know how to brace.

The first slow withdrawal pulls a thick, warm rush of last night’s cum with it. It spills out around his cock in a heavy, messy slide, coating my inner thighs, soaking the sheets beneath us. I feel it running down the crease of my ass, sticky and unmistakable, proof of how full he left me — how full I stayed all night with him still buried inside me while we slept.

“Like this,” he says. “Just like this. You don’t have to do anything. Let me.”

So I let him.

It’s nothing like last night’s storm. This is something slower and somehow worse; worse meaning better, meaning unbearable, him moving in me by degrees while the snow-light comes grey through the windows, unhurried, like we have the rest of our lives and he intends to spend this part of it exactly here. Every shallow thrust pushes more of his seed out of me in wet, filthy pulses, the slick sounds of it unmistakable in the quiet room.

“Feel that?” His mouth is at my ear, his voice all gravel. “You’re still full of me from last night. Took everything I gave you and kept it, all night long.” His hand presses harder, low on my belly, holding me down onto him, and I feel another thick gush escape around his cock as he grinds deep. “That’s how I want you. Always. Full of me. Soaking with me. My cum kept warm in this perfect little body, right where it can do its work.” He grinds deep and slow and I whimper into the pillow as more of it runs out, hot and slippery between us. “You like hearing that. I can feel you like it — you clenched so hard just now I almost finished.”

I can’t answer. I’ve lost the words somewhere. His hand slides lower and finds my clit, swollen and slick with the mess of us, two fingers working slow tight circles in time with the roll of his hips, and the doubled feeling is too much — a body that’s never done any of this drowning in all of it at once: his cock, his fingers, his voice, the weight of his arm, the grey light, the heat, the constant wet slide of yesterday’s release being fucked back out of me.

“That’s it,” he breathes. “Don’t chase it. Let me give it to you.” Another grind, another slow circle, another thick trickle of cum forced out around him. “You were made for this. Made to wake up on my cock and fall asleep on it and go round with what it puts in you. Say you know.”

“I know—” It’s barely a sound. “I know, I—”

The pleasure doesn’t crash. It rises, and rises, a tide with no edge to it, until I’m trembling and reaching back to clutch at his hip and a word falls out of me that I didn’t know I knew —

“Gosudar’—”

He goes rigid behind me.

For a second neither of us breathes. I don’t even know where I got it — the staff murmur it, heads bowed, Gosudar’, my lord, my sovereign — and it just rose up out of me, the truest name for what he is when he’s buried inside me like this, still pushing last night’s cum out of me with every careful thrust.

Then he makes a sound like something breaking, and the last of the slow is gone.

“Say it again.” His fingers press harder, relentless now. “Hazel. Say it again.”

“Gosudar’—” It shatters on a sob as he works me. “Please, please—”

He tips me onto my front, comes over me, his weight pinning me into the mattress and his hips driving down, deeper than before, the new angle striking something that whites out my vision. Cum spills freely now, forced out in messy rivulets with every hard thrust, soaking the sheets, coating his cock, dripping down my thighs in warm, shameful streams. His mouth drops to the back of my neck.

“There. Take it. Take all of me.” Every word is a thrust. “Going to fill you again. Keep filling you until it takes — until you’re round and mine and everyone who looks at you knows exactly whose you are.”

The slow tide turns into something with teeth. I come, clenching around him so hard it aches, milking him, and feel him follow a heartbeat later, dragging my hips back onto his as he spills hot and deep, his groan muffled in my hair, his arms a cage I never want out of — adding fresh heat to the mess already running out of me, claiming me all over again.

After, he cleans me up with a warm cloth, gentle, reverent, parting my thighs to check me like I'm something precious he might have damaged, and I let him, dazed, watching the cold grey morning fill a room that was once so cold and frozen.

And the thought slides in, quiet, the way the cold always finds a way in:

This isn't real. Not for keeps. Men like him don't keep girls like me — they have them, and then the world remembers who they are, and the girl goes back to being weather. You're going to wake up.

I'm already awake. That's the problem.