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“Please, what?”
“Cut it out. I don’t want to fight.”
“We’re not fighting, are we?”
“Then what do you call this?” I motion between us.
He reaches for my jeans with his free hand. “Setting boundaries.” The button pops free, and he keeps on watching my face as he pulls down the zipper. “Making sure you understand that this”—he yanks me against his erection by the waistband of my jeans—“is exclusive.”
Before I can say anything, he slams his lips over mine. He kisses me savagely even as his fingers dip gently into my underwear. I’m already soft, wet. He groans into my mouth as he gathers the slickness and spreads it over my clit. I arch my hips toward the touch, searching for more friction. He nips my tongue and licks my lips, then spears two fingers through my folds and drives them deep inside while rubbing the pad of his thumb over my clit.
The pleasure is instantaneous. My lower body heats, my knees growing weak. I grab his forearms and cling to him as he bends me backward and plunders my mouth. My neck aches from the strain, but I can’t think about anything other than how close to the edge his deft fingers are bringing me.
“Mine,” he growls, breaking the kiss.
Out of breath, I grip the vanity for support as he kneels and unties my laces. He removes my sneakers and my jeans. My panties follow next. Fastening his hands around my waist, he lifts me onto the counter and yanks off my T-shirt and bra. He doesn’t take the time to undress. He’s barely unfastened his belt and pulled down his zipper before he’s inside me. The intrusion is sudden and absolute, the stretch burning. I welcome it by snaking my arms around his neck, the discomfort reminding me I’m still alive, just like fifteen months ago when he fucked me for the first time. Like then and every time since, my body comes alive for him. He has a singular effect on me.
“It’s never been like this,” I admit in a moment of heat, wrapping my legs around his hips.
“Mina.” He smothers me in kisses and lifts me from the vanity.
Grabbing the back of my thighs, he walks to the bedroom with my body still draped around him and his cock buried inside me. At the edge of the bed, he stops. Instead of lowering us onto the mattress, he pulls out until only the head of his cock is lodged inside, then slowly lowers me back over his length.
“Fuck.” He stares into my eyes as he keeps a slow pace. “You feel as good as I knew you would. Better. Better than anything.”
Switching positions, he sits down so that I straddle him. “Ride me. Use my body to get off.”
The invitation is too tempting to let it pass. Yan likes to be in control. It’s not often he gives it away. Sensing his need to watch, I lean back and do exactly what he asked. I use him for my pleasure, moving at the right pace and depth for me. I look at his face when I touch my clit. He grits his teeth and leans back on his arms, giving me his body and permission to do with him as I please.
Giving up this much control requires trust, especially for him. I push up on my knees and sink back down, taking him deeper. His gaze snaps to where we’re connected. His eyes are a dark shade of green, his whole body drawn tight. He’s close to coming, but he doesn’t take over. He lets me ride out our mating dance until my body reflects the tightness of his muscles with an answering spasm. Sweating with the effort of holding back, he curses as my inner muscles clench. It’s only when I break that he lets go. When pleasure rips through my body, he follows suit with a low groan, filling me, emptying himself into me.
For a brief moment, I think about the possibility of creating a new life, about the choices and opportunities we’ll never have, and acute pain rips through me. Not that children would ever be an option with our lifestyles. Not that I expect this to ever go that far. It’s simply the fact that I don’t have a say and we’ll never get to choose. As illogical as it is, I’m mourning the ending when we’ve hardly had a beginning. I don’t want to admit what these emotions rippling through me signify. I only know I can’t let him go. I keep on rocking in his lap and kissing his lips to drag out the moment, willing it not to end. The invitation is long since over, but I still use him, this time not for my body but my soul.
With a palm on my back, he pushes me to his chest. I turn my face to the side and stay like that. His heartbeat is an erratic but strangely soothing sound in the tangle of my thoughts and feelings. Practicalities I haven’t considered up until now bombard my mind. The end will be tough. I won’t be pretty. What will he do with me? Will he grant me the mercy of a hospice and morphine, or slit my throat once it gets bad? When he realizes I’m no longer of use to him, will he keep me or set me free? I can’t imagine he’d want to be by my side when my body is bone thin and my skin sagging.
