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When he presses the swollen head against my entrance, I gasp. I can’t help myself. I can feel how big he is, too big for me, really. I have the sudden wild desire to beg him to stop, to try to get away, anything to keep that monster from forcing its way into my body.
“Don’t fight,printsessa,” Viktor growls, as if reading my thoughts. His hands tighten on my hips, holding me in place. “It will go easier for you if you relax.”
And then he thrusts, and for a second, I think I’m fucking losing my virginity all over again.
The pain is sharp and intense, shooting through me in a way that makes me dizzy for a brief second as his cock slides into me to the hilt. There’s no hesitation, no wait for me to adjust. He groans aloud, a guttural sound of pleasure, his face twisting with the sensation of it as his fingers sink into my skin.
For a second, he goes very still. I can feel the shudder that goes through him, his eyes closing for a moment, and I think with a bitter viciousness as my pussy clenches around him despite how raw and painful it feels:
I fucking hate you.
But then he starts to move.
The pain lasts for a second more, and then it turns into something else. He’s moving in long, measured thrusts, pulling out almost all the way and then thrusting back in hard, his eyes focused somewhere above my head. His movements are tense, almost businesslike as if he’s decided to stop toying with me and simply go about the business of consummating this fucked-up marriage. But my body has different ideas.
As the pain fades, I become suddenly viscerally aware of howfullI feel, how good his cock feels, stretching me to the limit. With each thrust, he touches every nerve inside of me, the thick head of his cock rubbing over that spot that he found with his fingers, his throbbing shaft impaling me, filling me, making it impossible to think about anything else. He’s rock hard, not just his cock but his entire body, rigid with focus, and his hands are still gripping my hips so tightly that I’m certain I’ll be bruised tomorrow.
And with every thrust, I feel a rising pleasure that’s almost impossible to hide, no matter how hard I grit my teeth or try to remain expressionless, even bored.
Franco never made me come. He thought he did several times, but I always finished myself off afterward. It was trial and error, for a while, to figure out how to touch myself in the right way, how to pleasure my own body to push myself over the edge. But once I did, I’d wished more than anything I could experience it with someone else. By then, all hope of happiness or pleasure in my marriage was gone. But I’d fantasized, occasionally, about some fling where I’d learn what it would feel like to come on a man’s cock. I’d never planned to actually find out, of course. Cheating for mafia men is a birthright. For their wives, it’s a death sentence.
But now, with Viktor’s cock thrusting into me in long, slow strokes that seem to touch every nerve ending in my body, I feel that knot in my stomach unfurling, my heart starting to race, the muscles in my thighs starting to tremble, my breath coming faster despite myself.I don’t want to come,I think desperately.Not with him. I won’t give him the satisfaction.But I’m not sure I can stop myself. He feels so big, so good, each powerful thrust sending sensations through my body that I never knew existed, and when he suddenly pulls me harder against him, his hips rocking forward so that his pelvis bumps against my clit, I know I won’t be able to stop.
It takes every bit of self-control I have not to cry out, moan, or claw at the sheets. The pleasure bursts over me suddenly, my clit throbbing as waves of it wash through me. I feel my pussy clench around him, spasming as I fight to just go tense and not arch my back, not grind against him the way I so desperately want to.
But I can’t fool him. He goes very still suddenly, and when I open my eyes, I see a look of pure lust in his, darkening that ice blue of his gaze until the hunger I see there sends a tremor of fear through me in the wake of my orgasm.
“Ha!” He laughs, his voice thick and deep. “Even the littleprintsessacouldn’t resist coming on a Bratva cock.” He starts to thrust again, faster this time, and I can see his own rigid control slipping. My orgasm has turned him on even more, making it harder for him to treat this as something to get over and done with, and I feel a small rush of victory at that. If I lost control, then he should too.
“Perhaps I’ll make you come many more times,” Viktor growls, thrusting harder, faster. “You thought you were too good for the pleasure of my bed, but your body knows better. It knows what it was made for.” Faster now, harder, his hands gripping my hips as he slams into me, panting as he nears his own climax. “You were made for me,printsessa. Made to come on my fucking cock.Fuck!”
He snarls that last as he thrusts into me once more, hard, and I feel his hips jerk in the instant before I feel the first hot rush of his cum. Viktor throws back his head, and I see the cords of his throat tighten as he growls out his pleasure, his cock throbbing as it spasms inside of me, his cum filling me. He looks almost primal, dangerous in a way that makes my heart race and my breath catch in my throat.
It’s in that moment, watching Viktor in the throes of his pleasure, I know for certain that I’ve married a very different man from Franco. And I know, seeing him lose control for that brief span of time, that I need to be very, very careful.
Viktor may have a good reason not to hurt me. But I’ve married a very dangerous man. Not unhinged and careless, the way Franco was, but calculating and intelligent. And that makes him far more deadly than Franco could have ever been.
One last, violent shudder ripples through his body, and then his hands go lax against my hips, his eyes opening. I see the moment he takes control of himself again, his expression going carefully blank, and then he pulls back, his cock slipping free.
I can feel him on my thighs, warm and sticky. Tonight could be the night I get pregnant with his child—and wouldn’t that be better, really? He said he’d fuck me until I was, so the sooner it happens, the better. But the thought makes my stomach knot with a sick dread.
I push myself backward on the bed, scooting away from him as quickly as I can. Viktor gives me space, moving to his side, but I’m already clambering off of it, stepping back. “I’m going to go take a shower,” I tell him, refusing to meet his eyes. I don’t want to look at him or speak to him more than necessary. I feel humiliated that he made me come, sickened that my first orgasm with a man was with him. Why would I have responded to his—his…brutality?
But even as I think it, I know that wasn’t really brutality. It was a rough, emotionless fuck, but I’ve already seen brutal. And I know that if he wanted to, Viktor could far exceed what I experienced of brutality with Franco.
It wasn’t even that bad,I tell myself as I spin on my heel and hurry towards the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind me.You’re being dramatic.But all I want is to burst into tears. The worst thing I’d imagined was for me to actually enjoy going to bed with Viktor, and I did. No matter what else I tell myself, I can’t pretend that he didn’t feel good.
I won’t let it happen again,I think to myself, striding towards the shower and angrily turning on the taps.I’ll figure out some way to keep him from fucking me again. I just need a plan. But I won’t do that again. I can’t bear it.If I can’t trust myself to lie back and ignore it until he’s done fucking me, then I can’t stand to go to bed with him at all.
It’s all I can do not to burst into tears as I step into the shower. I don’t want him to see me with swollen red eyes and know I’ve been crying. I wanted to be a statue with him, an ice princess, and it makes me feel weak knowing that I failed at that.
I stay under the hot water for as long as I can manage it, hoping that maybe he’ll fall asleep and I won’t have to face him again until tomorrow. I scrub myself until I’m raw and pink, until I’ve used up all of the floral-scented soap in the shower, and then when there’s nothing left to wash with and the hot water is stinging my skin, I lean against the wall and try to gather myself.
There’s nothing I can do to escape being Viktor’s wife. All I can do is survive one day at a time, adapt as things come, and do my best. I’d hoped not so long ago that my life wouldn’t be this anymore—but it is. I can either force myself to get through it, or I might as well have flung myself off of the balcony earlier and saved myself the humiliation of what happened between us in bed.
When I finally step out of the shower and dry off, wrapping myself in one of the thick, fluffy hotel robes that thankfully cover me from neck to calves, I expect to see Viktor—if he’s still awake—waiting for me with smug satisfaction on his face.
But that’s not what I find at all. He’s awake when I walk back into the room, sitting in one of the armchairs by the fireplace with a drink in his hand, but he doesn’t even look up at first when I walk into the room, as if he doesn’t hear me. And then, when he finally seems to register that I’m standing there, he looks almost startled. I notice that he’s dressed again, changed into black silk pajamas that somehow make him look powerful and elegant instead of ridiculous like most men would look in something like that.
