Page 71 of Anton

She quickens her pace, but it still isn’t enough. I flip her onto her back, hook her legs over my shoulders, and plunge into her until there’s nowhere left for me to go.

“Oh fuck, that feels good.” Her fingers clamp around my bicep, my muscles flexing beneath them. “Harder, please.”

“Ya dam tebe vso, detka.” I’ll give you everything, baby.

I answer by pounding into her with enough force to shake the bed. Part of me wants to drag this out, but the rest needs it to end because it’s too damn much. Those eyes. The tenderness of her touch and the dangerous realization that I’m beginning to need her.

My fingers return to her clit, determined to take her with me. Her spine curves away from the mattress, and the tremors running through her tell me she’s close. I increase the pressure, and her eyes roll back as she cries out, squirting around my cock.

“Yes, yes, yes!”

I keep pistoning through her release, chasing my own while her moans grow louder. Her cunt continues pulsing around me, greedy for more. Two fingers press against her clit again, rubbing tight circles until her fists twist in the sheets and another plea breaks from her parted lips.

“Oh God, Anton, don’t stop.”

“Squirt for me again.”

I grip her throat as I fuck her rougher, watching her lose herself. Her body locks, then shatters, soaking the bed as a scream tears from her.

“Vso moyo,” I growl. Everything’s mine.

One final thrust sends me over the edge. I bury myself inside her and come with a desperate grunt, holding her beneath me while the question I’ve been avoiding crashes through my mind.

What the fuck am I supposed to do with her now?

THORA

His arm remains wrapped around me long after we’re done, my cheek resting against the warmth of his chest while his fingers drift lazily along my spine. The room is quiet except for our breathing and the gentle patter of rain against the windows.

I don’t think I’ve ever seen Anton this relaxed.

Moving carefully, I trace a scar stretching across one of his pecs. There are so many. Some are thin and faded, while others are thicker and misshapen, their edges rough under my fingertips, as though whatever caused them tore through him so badly his skin never healed properly. They continue over his shoulders and across his torso, one mark overlapping another.

Who did this to him? And why? All I can think about is how much it must have hurt and how alone he must have been while it happened.

I know a little about his family. How his mom died when he was young, how cruel his father was to all of them.

Pain gathers in my chest. This poor man and what he must’ve gone through. I want to know what happened to him, to understand the pain he still carries and find some way to ease it. I can’t undo what was done to that little boy, but maybe if he lets me get close enough, I can help the man he became.

My fingertips pass over another scar. “How did you get these?”

I’m afraid the question will ruin this moment, but I can’t keep it inside any longer.

His hand stills against my back, and regret hits me immediately. I’ve crossed a line.

Then his fingertips begin drifting up again, tracing circles over my skin while the silence stretches until I’m certain he won’t answer.

“Dogs,” he says at last.

I lift my head from his chest. “Dogs? What do you mean?”

These scars couldn’t have come from one animal. They look as though he was trapped with a pack of them and left to survive.

Please don’t let that be what happened.

His eyes remain fixed on the ceiling. “My father used to make me fight them when I was a kid.”

My brain refuses to put the words together in that order. Refuses to picture Anton as a child in the same sentence as something that cruel.