The angle changed—deeper, each thrust punching the air from my lungs. My cheek pressed into the mattress. Drool pooled at the corner of my mouth, and I didn’t move to wipe it away. I wasn’t holding on anymore. My arms lay heavy on the sheets, my body loose and open while he used it.
“Such a perfect little cunt,” he groaned, voice rough. “I could fuck you all night. Would you let me? Just stay here, take my cock, until you can’t move in the morning?”
I couldn’t answer. All I could give him was a thin, broken moan.
He didn’t wait for more. Luka clamped both hands around my hips, holding me in place as his rhythm turned hard and relentless. My knees slid, my body moving only where he put it, lifted and driven by his force alone.
Then Luka’s control snapped.
His pace turned rough and uneven. He spilled a string of words in a language I didn’t know, his voice hoarse and unmoored. His body tightened, then shuddered as he came, buried deep inside me.
The world reduced to sensation: the heat of him, the pulse and release, the steady grip of his hands keeping me exactly where he wanted me. He kept moving through the last of it, slower now, grinding until the tension drained from his body.
Then he folded over me, breath heavy, his weight settling warm and solid along my back.
For a long moment, we stayed like that—him still inside me, his heat lingering, his body a heavy, anchoring press.
He pulled out slowly, the loss leaving a molten ache behind.
Luka hovered, a wall of sweat and muscle, then dropped onto the bed beside me. For a moment, he just lay there, arm thrown over his eyes, chest rising and falling. Then, without a word,he pulled me into him, folding me tight against his body, thigh draped over my leg, hand settled between my breasts.
“God, you’re perfect,” he whispered. “My sweet little slut. My greedy girl.”
He said it like a blessing, not a slur. And it didn’t sting.
“You take everything I give you.” He grazed his lips along my cheek, then my ear, as if he wasn’t sure whether to soothe or claim.
I don’t know how long we stayed knotted together, my pulse slowly steadying, his hands moving over me in slow, absent trails. My body felt loose and heavy, my mind quiet.
He combed his fingers through my hair—patient, tender—from my scalp to my shoulders, then back again. The rhythm was hypnotic. My breathing synced to the slow glide of his hands.
“I break you so no one else can,” he whispered. His words ghosted against my skin. “And I’ll be the one to keep you in one piece.”
chapter
nine
“Bite,” Luka said, holding out a wedge of apple balanced on the edge of a kitchen knife.
I hesitated, reaching for it with my fingers, but he drew the blade back a fraction, eyes flicking up in quiet warning.
“I said bite.”
He brought the apple to my mouth. I leaned in carefully, aware of the razor-sharp blade inches from my lips, and closed my teeth around the slice. The knife’s cold breath ghosted against my chin as he withdrew it. Crisp sweetness burst across my tongue.
I chewed, swallowed, then asked, “So this is your idea of aftercare? Fruit and sharp objects?”
The corner of his mouth twitched. He turned back to the counter, slicing the rest of the apple into perfect, even wedges. The knife’s rhythm—metal against wood—was steady, almost hypnotic, the only sound in the dim kitchen.
“You need sugar.” He didn’t look at me as he spoke. “You lost electrolytes.” He balanced another slice on the knife’s edge. “Fruit. Water. Sleep. In that order.”
I snorted, but I took the next wedge between my teeth, letting him feed it to me. Cold juice overflowed, sweet and astringent.
The evening’s events replayed in fragments—pain and pleasure, submission, surrender, the ache in my hips, the taste of his skin lingering in my mouth—but there was a calm in my limbs. Stripped-out and hollow in the best possible way.
He wiped the knife, set it aside, and poured two glasses of mineral water from a green glass bottle. The fizz crackled against the sides. He slid one across the counter toward me.
I took it and drank, the glass trembling in my hands. I wore one of Luka’s T-shirts—plain black, sleeves rolled, his cologne ground into the cotton. It barely covered my thighs, and my hair was a haystack, but he didn’t seem to mind.