Then she pushes her hips back. Deliberate. Demanding.
I groan low in my throat. “You’re going to kill me.”
She pulls my hand down from her mouth. “Then move,” she whispers.
So I do.
I draw back slowly, almost all the way out, then thrust back in. Her head drops, and I catch her by the throat, not squeezing, only holding her upright, forcing her to watch us.
“No,” I say. “Look.”
Her eyes open.
I fuck her again. Harder this time.
Her breasts bounce under her sweater. Her lips part. Her fingers curl against the sink as she fights to stay quiet.
The plane hums beneath us.
Outside the door, people sleep, sip champagne, read books, know nothing.
Inside, I lose my mind by inches.
I thrust into her with both hands on her hips now, pulling her back to meet every stroke. The space is too small to be graceful. My shoulder brushes the wall. Her knee knocks against the cabinet. The sink rattles softly under her grip.
She does not seem to care. Neither do I.
Her body takes me beautifully.
Tight at first, then wetter, softer, greedier. Every thrust pushes a small, helpless sound from her throat. I cover her mouth again,and this time she sucks in a breath against my palm, eyes rolling half-closed.
My cock drives deep. Again. Again.
She starts moving with me.
That’s when it becomes impossible to think.
Katerina is not passive beneath my hands. She’s not some broken little thing letting me use her to forget a bad night. No, she’s hungry. She pushes back, grinds, takes. Her hips learn my rhythm and then demand more of it. I slide one hand beneath her sweater and fill my palm with her heavy tit.
She arches violently, and I bite the side of her neck to keep from groaning too loud.
Mine.The word comes from nowhere.
I hate it. I want it. I pinch her nipple between my fingers and thrust harder.
Her body clenches around me. “Oh God,” she gasps, too loud.
I cover her mouth with mine from behind, twisting her face toward me, kissing her messily, brutally, while my hips keep moving. She moans into my mouth as I fuck her against the sink, one hand on her breast, the other gripping her hip hard enough that I’ll leave marks.
I want to see my fingerprints on her tomorrow. I want her to feel me when she walks.The thought is ugly and possessive.
And I fuck her harder.
Her hand flies back, grabbing at my thigh, my shirt, anything. She’s close. I feel it in the frantic flutter around my cock, thetension in her belly beneath my hand, the way her breathing breaks into tiny, desperate sounds.
“Roman,” she whispers. “I can’t…”
“It’s okay kitten,” I say.