Page 122 of Obsessed Bratva Daddy
"Look at me," he said.
I did. His gray-green eyes were very close and very dark.
He pressed in. So slow. I felt every inch of it, the careful give of my body around his, the steady weight of him settling over me without pressing. My breath went out of me in something small and wet. His forehead came down to mine. He stayed there, foreheads pressed, breathing my breath, while my body adjusted around him.
"Chloe."
"Yes."
"Chloe."
"Yes, my love."
He moved. He kept his eyes on mine the whole time. My fingers slid up into his hair and held him at the temple, right next to the small old scar I had kissed a hundred times. His other hand slid up the long line of my ribs and splayed flat under my breast, warm and wide, anchoring. My legs came up of their own accord and settled around his hips, and his weight settled deeper into me, and it felt right the way a key turning in a lock feels right.
He kept the pace easy. It was a slow that was harder than fast. I could feel his control held just barely. I could feel it in the tremor at the back of his shoulder under my hand. I could feel it in the way his jaw set when he breathed in.
"I am yours," he said, low, into the corner of my mouth.
"I know."
"Say it back."
"I'm yours."
"Again."
"I'm yours, Daniil. Always."
His forehead pressed harder to mine. The rhythm did not get faster. It got deeper. His hand under my breast slid up to the side of my neck and his thumb pressed light at the line of my jaw, tipping my face up so that I could not look anywhere but at him.
He said my name like he was learning it. Like he had forgotten it once and never wanted to forget it again. He said it on the inhale and on the exhale and into the corner of my mouth and against my jaw. I kept saying his back, soft. Daniil. Daniil. Daniil.
He did not chase. He did not rush. He moved like a man who had all the time in the world, because he did, because we did. The heat kept rising under the slow. I could feel it in me, the long quiet build, the wave I had ridden once already coming back for me, deeper this time, with him.
I felt myself start to climb. I felt my breath go shallow against his mouth. He felt it. His thumb stroked the back of my hand against the pillow, and his fingers tightened on mine, the bands pressing together.
"My wife," he said, very low, right at the edge of me.
It landed in me like a hand.
I tipped first. I tried to warn him. He shook his head once, small, foreheads still pressed, and said, "Together."
He waited for me. He held himself just over me. When I went, I went with my eyes open on his because he asked me to, and he followed me right after, slow and shuddering, his eyes on mine the whole way, his mouth open just a little, my name on his breath like a prayer that had finally been answered. He spilled into me on a long exhale with my name in it, and I held him there with my hand still laced into his on the pillow, both rings still pressed together.
He stayed in me a beat. He stayed forehead to forehead, both of us breathing the same warm small piece of air between our mouths.
I cried.
It was the good kind. The clean kind. The kind that comes out of you when something inside you is finally allowed to put itself down.
He kissed the corner of my eye where the tears came out. Then the other one. Then the bridge of my nose. Then my mouth, soft.
"I have you," he said.
"I know."
"I have you."
