I pushed back against him, grinding hard, giving him everything I had left.
He picked up the pace, the tempo brutal, using my body like a machine engineered to his blueprinted specs. I lost count of how many times he made me come—each wave stealing a little more control, until the sounds I made barely resembled language. By the end, my knees buckled and Luka held me up, hands locked on my hips, holding me fast as he drove deep one last time.
He came with a groan, low and guttural and unrestrained. Heat pulsed through me. He stayed pressed tight, breathing hard against my back, until the tremors in my thighs began to ease.
For a long time, neither of us moved.
Luka’s hands drifted over my hips, tracing the bruises already blooming there. I clung to the barstool, limbs leaden, lungs fighting to keep up.
Eventually he eased out, grabbed a towel from the counter, and cleaned me gently, the roughness gone.
We ended up on the kitchen floor, bare skin against the cold tile, backs braced to the knotty pine cabinets. The world beyond was muffled, the city reduced to a dim, narcotic hush. Luka’s body was a furnace next to me, sweat gleaming along the hard ridges of his shoulders. My thighs trembled, not with cold, but aftershocks—flashbacks of pleasure, the echo of his grip still pressed deep into the muscle.
My mouth was dry as a salt flat. I fumbled for the fridge handle, popped it open, and grabbed a sweating bottle of water. I handed it to Luka, but he nudged it back.
“You drink first.”
I took a long pull, then passed it over. Luka drank, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes half-lidded.
“That was fucking amazing,” I said, because no amount of marketing polish could dress it up any better.
He grinned, a flash of teeth in the dim light from the vent hood. “I’m pleased I satisfy you.”
I let my head tip sideways, studying him. “More than satisfy. I think you short-circuited my nervous system.”
Luka watched me, that familiar look settling in—part heat, part assessment. His attention always felt precise, as if he were tracking every shift in my breathing, every tiny reaction.
“We should probably go shopping for actual supplies,” I added lightly. “Since I hope this is going to be a regular thing.”
His brow lifted. “Supplies?”
“You know. Rope. Cuffs. Something more…official.” I poked my heel into his calf. “I’m pretty sure I don’t have any network cable lying around.”
He laughed—genuine, the sound rough at the edges. “You noticed my improvisation, then.”
I side-eyed him, smiling despite myself. “Hard not to.”
He shrugged, unapologetic. “It was on hand.”
“Creative. Points for resourcefulness.”
He caught my foot and drew it to his lap, tracing a line from arch to toe with his thumb. “I told you,mila, I don’t have women over. So…”
“Relax, Luka. I’m teasing.”
A silence grew—not awkward, but dense. Luka’s breathing had evened out, but the edges of his mouth wavered like he was holding something back.
I rested my chin on my knee and watched him trace along the arch of my foot, slow and methodical.
“What does ‘mila’ mean?” I asked, the question dropping into the quiet like a stone breaking the surface of a lake. “You never told me.”
He looked up, startled, like I’d caught him somewhere private. Then he coughed, almost embarrassed. “It’s…a term of endearment. Darling. Sweetheart.” He shrugged, but his grip tightened around my ankle. “In my language, it’s what you call someone you…care for. Someone who matters.”
I let that sit. I liked the way it sounded. The way it made my chest feel less hollow.
“And the other thing?” I hesitated, the burn of memory making my cheeks hot. “When you were…inside me. You said something else.”
He froze, hand halfway up my calf. For a full count, he didn’t move.