Page 178 of Ruthless Sin
“Ya tvoy.” I’m yours.
A pause. One beat.
“Vsegda byl.” Always was.
Then, only then, after I have said it and he has answered:
“Ty moya.” You’re mine.
I lean down. My mouth finds his. He tastes like salt and the grief that just left this room and underneath that, him, just him, the way he has always tasted. I begin to move.
I roll my hips slowly, pulling back and pressing forward, and the friction of it goes through me like heat through water, low and deep and sharp at the same time, and the sound I make against his mouth is small and broken and entirely involuntary.
Once. Twice.
A sound low in his throat, half-groan, and his hand on my hip tightens.
I move again. The chain swings between us. His mouth is on mine and his hands are on my hips and he is everywhere and I want to stay here, exactly here, for the rest of my life.
Then his hands change.
I feel it before I see it, the shift in his hands, the grip going from careful to certain, the breath changing from held to released. He is not asking with his hands anymore. He is telling.
He sits up with me still on him, one arm around my back, and rolls us in one motion. I am on my back beneath him and he is braced above me on his forearms, his weight between my thighs, his cock still inside me, and his face is an inch from mine. He breathes once, hard, the tape pulling at his ribs, the effort of it visible in his jaw, and he does not stop.
His eyes do not leave mine.
“My turn.” Voice rough. Low. A sound I have not heard from him before. “I’ve been watching you for days and I have been patient and tonight I am done being patient. Do you understand me?”
My breath comes out in a rush. My hands go to his back, to the scars I have not asked about, and I pull him down.
He moves.
Not careful. Not gentle. Deep and deliberate, the kind of stroke that knocks the air out of me, and a sound tears out of my throat before I can stop it.
“That’s it.” Through his teeth, watching my face. “Give me that. Give me every sound.”
He moves again. I arch up into him.
“You have no idea—” He stops. His jaw goes tight. He drives into me and finishes the sentence against my mouth. “You have no idea what you do to me. What you’ve been doing to me. Lying awake every night three doors down.”
His mouth goes to my throat. The place under my jaw where the violin used to live. Hot and wet and careful in a way the rest of him is not being right now.
“Every time you looked at me like you were deciding whether I was worth it.” His hand slides between us, his thumb findingmy clit, and I gasp so sharply it is almost a word. “I am going to spend the rest of my life proving I am worth it.”
The pressure builds low and sharp and I am going to come and I want to hold it, want to stay in this, want to keep him talking in this broken, honest English in my ear.
“Look at me,” he says. “Don’t close your eyes. Look at me when you come.”
I look at him.
The orgasm breaks through me and he holds my gaze through every second of it, his thumb on my clit and his cock inside me and his eyes on my eyes, and the sound I make is everything that has been in my throat since the first night in this house, finally let out, full-throated and real and mine.
He keeps moving. His mouth at my collarbone, my sternum, the chain hot against his lips.
“One more.” Against my skin. “One more, and then I’m going to?—”
His voice breaks. He drives into me harder and the edge climbs again already.
