“Oh God.”
His mouth brushes my jaw. “No. Me.”
The filthy confidence of it should make me laugh.
Instead, I come closer.
He adds a second finger slowly, watching my face the whole time, and I break apart all over again, whimpering and arching against him while he keeps me exactly where he wants me. The room narrows to his hand, his mouth, the sound of my own breathing going frantic. I can feel how hard he is under me now, hot and thick beneath his trousers, and that only makes it worse.
I grind down into his palm and his lap at the same time, desperate for everything at once.
“That’s it,” he says, voice rougher now. “Take what you need.”
I’m too far gone to be embarrassed by how wanton that makes me. I ride his hand shamelessly, every movement slippery and hot, his fingers pumping slow and deep while his thumb presses just right. He knows exactly how to touch a woman through the edge of panic and into pleasure. He knows when to slow, when to deepen it, when to make it unbearable.
My body goes tight, and he feels it immediately.
“There,” he says. “Come for me.”
The words snap something loose in me. I come with a broken cry, my whole body shaking in his arms, cunt clenching hardaround his fingers while his thumb keeps working me through every pulse of it. I can’t stop moving. Can’t stop clutching at him. I’m half sobbing, half moaning, and he just holds me and takes it, his mouth at my throat, his hand relentless until I’m oversensitive and shaking too hard to keep going.
Only then does he slow.
His fingers slide out of me, wet and glistening in the dim room, and he brings them to his mouth without taking his eyes off mine. He sucks them clean, and the sight of it sends a fresh throb through me.
I’m still panting when I realize what just happened. That I woke from a nightmare crying and ended up coming in his lap like I have no self-control, no fear, no sense at all.
He brushes his thumb over my bottom lip. “Better?” he asks.
I stare at him, wrecked and trembling and very possibly still in love with the worst possible man. And because lying now would be absurd, I whisper, “No.”
His mouth curves, and he kisses me again.
He looks at me for one long second after that kiss, breathing a little harder, his eyes on my face like he’s deciding whether to stop now or make this much worse.
Then he stands.
I watch him in silence as he unbuttons his shirt properly this time and shrugs it off, then reaches for his belt. There’s nothing hurried in the way he undresses. No fumbling, no performance. Just a big, beautiful man taking off his clothes like he already knows exactly what he’s going to do to me.
My mouth goes dry.
He strips down until there’s nothing left between us, and God, he’s unfair. Broad shoulders, hard chest, dark ink and old scars over a body that still looks carved for sin. He’s thick and heavy already, cock flushed and hard, and the sight of him makes my whole body throb all over again.
He comes back to the bed and kneels over me, one hand sliding under my thigh to draw me closer. “So beautiful,” he murmurs, looking down at me with a hunger that feels almost reverent. “I’ve wanted this since last night.”
My breath catches.
His hand slides up under my top, over my stomach, my ribs, until his thumb brushes the underside of my breast. He looks at me once before he lifts the fabric, slow enough to give me time to stop him.
I don’t.
I can’t.
He pulls the top up and over my breasts, then bends his head and kisses one of my nipples through the thin fabric of my bra first, just a warm press of his mouth that makes me arch.
“Viktor.”
“I know.” His voice is rough already. “I know.”