His hands move to my back, finding the clasp of my bra. He pauses, a question in his eyes. I nod, once, and the garment falls away. My breasts spill free, and the air feels like a caress. He just stares, his expression one of hunger. It makes my chest hurt.
He pushes my pants and underwear down my legs in one motion, and I step out of them. Naked before him, I should feel exposed, afraid.
I don’t. I see the way his throat works as he swallows, the way his eyes darken as they travel over my body. I arch my back slightly,letting my hips tilt, a slow, provocative roll that makes his jaw tighten.
Then he’s undressing, his movements efficient. His shirt, his pants, his boxers. And then he’s just…him. All of him. My gaze drops and my mouth actually goes dry. He’s thick and long, his cock standing rigid against his stomach, the head flushed a deep, angry red. A primal part of me clenches in anticipation, in sheer want.
He takes my hand and leads me into the shower.
The water is blissfully hot, cascading over my shoulders, sluicing away the grime and fear of the past days. He reaches for a bottle of shampoo, pours a generous amount into his palm, and then his hands are in my hair. He massages my scalp, his fingers working in slow, firm circles, and a moan of pure relief escapes me. I lean into his touch, my eyes closed, letting him wash away everything. The Vienna cold, the cell floor, the scent of cedar and despair.
His hands smooth down my neck, over my shoulders, tracing the line of my spine. They slide around my waist, pulling me back against him. I feel his hard length press into the cleft of my ass, and I push back against it, a slow, grinding motion. He curses softly, his lips finding the sensitive spot behind my ear.
One hand glides down my stomach, through the wet thatch of curls, and finds my folds. I am so ready, so open for him. His fingers slide through my slickness with ease, and a broken sound leaves my throat.
“Razvan,” I breathe, my head falling back against his shoulder.
“I know,” he says, and it sounds like an apology for what he’s about to do, for what I’m about to let him do.
His fingers delve inside me, two of them, curling upward, and my knees nearly buckle.“Fuck, you’re tight,”he grunts, his mouth on my neck, sucking the skin there. His thumb finds my clit, circles it with a sharpness that is utterly devastating. He sets a rhythm, his fingers pumping in and out of me, his thumb applying perfect, maddening pressure. I’m babbling nonsense words and pleas, my hands braced against the slick tile wall. The pleasure coils, tight and hot, deep in my belly.
“Come for me, Lena,” he commands, his voice rough in my ear. “Let me feel you come on my fucking fingers.”
It’s the command, the filthy promise in his words, that shatters me. My orgasm crashes through me, a violent, blinding wave that wrings a scream from my lungs. My inner muscles clutch and spasm around his fingers, and he works me through every last pulse, until I’m shaking and boneless against him.
He turns me around, kissing me deeply.
Then he washes me, every inch, his hands worshipful and thorough. He dries me with a towel so soft it feels like clouds, patting my skin gently, before drying himself.
He carries me to the bed and lays me down in the center. The sheets are cool and crisp. He stands at the foot of the bed, just looking, his gaze a physical touch. Then he drops to his knees, pushes my thighs apart, and lowers his mouth to me.
I cry out.
His tongue is flat and broad, licking a slow, torturous stripe from my entrance to my clit. He fucks me with his tongue, then sucks and licks my clit into the heat of his mouth, his hands holding my hips down when I arch off the bed. He is relentless, expert,reading every twitch and gasp. He inserts two fingers back inside me, crooking them, and sucks my clit hard.
I come again, sobbing his name, my body convulsing under his mouth. He doesn’t stop until the last tremor subsides, until I’m a wrung-out, trembling mess on the sheets.
He crawls up my body, his cock dragging a wet trail over my stomach. He positions himself between my legs, the broad head of his dick nudging at my entrance. He looks down at me, his eyes searching mine.
“I’m going to fuck you now,” he says, a statement, a warning.
“Yes,” I hiss. “Fuck me. Now. Please.”
He drives into me in one long, brutal stroke.
I scream. The stretch is immense, a burning fullness that steals the air from my lungs. He is so big, filling me completely, reaching places I didn’t know existed. He goes still, buried to the hilt, his body trembling with the effort of holding back.
“Jesus,” he grits out. “You feel…impossible.”
Then he moves. There is no gentleness, no slow build. This is what we both need—the collision, the punishment, the frantic, desperate joining. He pounds into me, his hips slapping against mine, the bed rocking with the force of his thrusts. I wrap my legs high around his waist, meeting him thrust for thrust, my nails scoring down his back. The sounds we make are animalistic, grunts and cries and the wet, rhythmic slap of skin on skin.
“You take my cock so fucking good,” he snarls, his voice thick with lust. “Your greedy, wet pussy was made for me to fuck.”
His words are filthy, and they send another bolt of pure heat through me. He shifts my leg, hooks it over his arm, opening me wider, and the angle changes. The next thrust hits a spot inside me that makes my vision flash white.
“Yes!” I shriek. “Right there, fuck, don’t stop! Please. Please. Please.”
He hammers that spot, over and over, a ruthless, perfect rhythm. The coil inside me winds impossibly tight. I can feel my own slickness coating us both, hear the lewd, squelching sounds of his dick pistoning in and out of my soaked cunt. I’m chanting his name, my eyes rolling behind uncontrollably, as the pressure breaks.