Page 153 of Dark King Daddy

I put my mouth on her.

Tender. Not the ferocity of the first time, when I had pulled her down onto my face and fucked her with my tongue until she made a sound I would carry for the rest of my life. This was different. I kissed her the way I had kissed her mouth—slowly, with attention, with the particular care of a man who understood that what he was doing was not just pleasure but a statement.

I found her clit. I pressed my tongue against it—flat, warm, holding. She gasped. Her hands gripped the mattress. I held the pressure. I did not move. I let the warmth and the steadiness of my mouth do the work, and I felt her respond—her thighs tightening against my hands, her hips tilting forward, her body opening to me the way it had opened before, not because I commanded it but because she chose it.

I moved my tongue. Slow circles. She was wet—I could taste her, feel her, the slick heat of her arousal against my mouth. I kept the rhythm. Steady. Relentless. She breathed faster. Her fingers found my hair again. Her grip tightened.

“Daniil—”

I did not stop. I held her thighs and I kept my mouth on her and I felt her climb—slowly, gradually, the pleasure building in waves that I could track through the muscles of her legs, the tension in her stomach, the pitch of her breathing. She was close. I could feel it.

I pressed harder. She came.

Quiet. Not the devastating, body-wrecking climax of the first night. Something deeper. A long, sustained wave that moved through her body like a current—her thighs trembling, her stomach tightening, her breath held and then released in a sound that was my name, spoken softly, as if the word itself were enough.

I held her through it. My hands on her thighs. My mouth still on her. I did not pull away until the trembling stopped and her grip on my hair loosened and she said, “Come up. Come here. Please.”

I stood. I pulled off my sweater. My t-shirt. I unbuckled my belt and pushed my trousers down. She watched me. Her eyes were dark. Her mouth was swollen from kissing. She lay back on the bed and opened her arms and I came to her.

“Inside me,” she said. “I want you inside me.”

I settled between her legs. The head of my cock rested against her entrance. She was wet—still wet from my mouth, from the orgasm, from the hours of fear and tenderness that had led to this moment. I pushed forward. Slowly. The warmth of her opened around me, and I entered her inch by inch, and the feeling was—

Something else. Something that had no word. The feeling of being exactly where I was supposed to be. Of her body accepting mine. Of the space between us disappearing.

I buried myself inside her. Full. Deep. Her legs wrapped around my hips. Her arms went around my neck. She pulled me down until my chest was against hers, until I could feel her heart beating against my ribs, until my mouth was beside her ear.

I began to move.

Slowly. Each thrust long and deep and deliberate, my hips rolling against hers, my body pressing into her and withdrawing and pressing again. She met me. Her hips rose to take each thrust. Her hands moved across my back—my shoulders, my spine, the muscles along my sides—and her touch was not desperate. It was claiming.

“Daniil.”

“Yes.”

“I only want you.” Her voice was rough. Low. Spoken against my jaw, her lips moving against my skin. “Only you. Not the Pakhan. Not the organization. You.”

I thrust deeper. She gasped. Her legs tightened around me.

“I belong to you,” she said. “I chose you. Nothing scares me when we’re together. Nothing.”

I kissed her. My mouth on hers, my tongue against hers, my cock inside her, my body covering hers. The kiss was deep and slow and it matched the rhythm of my hips—each thrust met with a kiss, each withdrawal met with her following, her mouth chasing mine the way it had that first night on the sofa.

The pleasure built. Not fast—not the sharp, urgent climb of the first night. A slow, heavy accumulation that started where our bodies joined and spread outward through my stomach, my chest, my throat. I could feel her building too—the tightening around my cock, the change in her breathing, the way her hands gripped my back harder with each thrust.

I held her. I held her close and I moved inside her and I felt the orgasm approach for both of us—hers and mine, synchronized, climbing together the way we had climbed everything together, side by side, her strength and mine, her fear and mine, her want and mine.

“Ksyusha.”

“I’m—Daniil, I’m—”

“Together. Come with me.”

She came. I felt it—the sudden, clenching wave, her body gripping mine, her back arching beneath me. I followed her. The orgasm broke through me—deep, total, my whole body tightening and releasing, and I came inside her, hot and pulsing, and I said her name against her mouth.

Not Ksenia. Ksyusha.

We lay together. My weight on her. Her arms around me. Our breathing ragged, synchronized, slowing. I was still inside her. I did not want to move. I did not want to leave the warmth of her body, the circle of her arms, the particular safety of this bed in this room in this house that was ours.