Page 60 of The Pakhan's Captive
His words are the final trigger. The orgasm crashes over me like a wave of black velvet, violent and total. My vision whites out. A broken, continuous cry is torn from my lips as I convulse, my cunt clenching around nothing, drenching his mouth and chin. He drinks it all, his tongue lapping at me, prolonging the shocks until I’m a trembling, sobbing wreck on the duvet.
Before the last tremor has even faded, he’s moving. I hear the rasp of his zipper, the rustle of clothes being shoved out of the way. I’m boneless, spent, floating in a haze of shameful satiation. He climbs onto the bed, looming over me, his own clothing discarded. I force my eyes to focus.
His cock is as imposing as the rest of him. Thick, long, and brutally hard, it stands out from a nest of dark hair. The head is a deep, flushed purple, glistening with a bead of pre-cum. A prominent vein runs along the underside. It’s a weapon, and he’s about to use it.
He spreads my legs wider, hooking my knees over his elbows, lifting my hips. The position leaves me utterly exposed, my well-used pussy on blatant display for him. He notches the broad head at my entrance, rubbing it through the slick mess he created.
“Look at me,” he commands, his voice strained.
My gaze, hazy and defeated, lifts to his. His face is a mask of feral hunger, his lips still wet from me. There’s no tenderness there. Only conquest.
“This cunt is mine,” he says, each word a hammer blow. “It always was. And now I take it back.”
He pushes forward.
The stretch is immense, breathtaking. I’m wet, so fucking wet from my orgasm, but he’s huge. He fills me with an inexorable, burning pressure that steals the air from my lungs. He doesn’t stop until he’s fully seated, his hips pressed flush against mine, his cock buried to the hilt inside me. A choked sound escapes me, part pain, part overwhelming fullness.
“Bozhe moy,” he groans, his head dropping forward for a second. “You’re so fucking tight. Like a fist.”
Then he begins to move. He sets a punishing, deep rhythm from the start. Withdrawing almost all the way until just the tip remains, then driving back in with a powerful thrust of his hips that jolts my entire body up the bed. Each stroke drags against my sensitized inner walls, sparking fresh tendrils of pleasure that immediately begin coiling again. The slap of his skin against mine, the wet, filthy sounds of our joining, fill the room.
My hate is gone, burned away by this all-consuming physicality. My mind is empty of everything but the sensation of him—the smell of his sweat, the feel of his muscles working under my hands where they’ve somehow come to clutch his shoulders, the sight of his cock pistoning in and out of my body. My own hips rise to meet his thrusts, a helpless, instinctive synchronization.
“You feel that?” he grunts, his pace increasing. “You feel how deep I am in you? This is where you belong. On my cock. Taking every fucking inch.”
His words are filthy, degrading, and they send another bolt of lightning straight to my core. I can only moan, my head thrashing side to side on the pillow. The friction is building again, a pressure so intense it borders on pain. He shifts his angle slightly, and on the next thrust he hits a spot so deep, so perfect, that I see stars.
“There!” I cry out, my nails digging into his back. “Oh god, right there!”
A savage grin splits his face. “I know,” he breathes, and he aims for that spot with every brutal, perfect stroke. “I know your body better than you do,zhena moya. Now come for me again. Come on your husband’s cock.”
The command, the ownership in that wordhusband, is the final key. The second orgasm detonates, even more powerful than the first. It rips through me with a violence that feels like being unmade. My cunt convulses around his invading length, milking him, and a scream is ripped from my throat, a raw, ragged sound that holds his name.
Razvan’s control shatters. With a roar that is pure animal triumph, he slams into me one final time, his body going rigid. I feel the hot, sudden pulse of his release deep inside me, jet after jet filling me up, marking me as his in the most primitive way possible. He collapses on top of me, his weight crushing, his breath coming in harsh gasps against my neck.
We lie there, a tangled, sweaty mess of spent limbs and shocking intimacy. The silence is broken only by our ragged breathing. The reality of what just happened, what I justdid, what I justfeltstarts to seep through the post-coital haze. A deep, shuddering sob works its way up my throat.
He must feel it. He rolls off me but immediately gathers me against his side, his arm a heavy, inescapable band across my stomach. His other hand comes up to my face, his thumb brushing away a traitorous tear I didn’t even know had fallen.
Oh no.
That’s the first thought. Before my eyes are open, before I’m fully conscious, before anything else. Just the soreness hitting all at once and my brain supplying the reason for it immediately and comprehensively, and I lie there in the dark with my eyes shut and I hate myself and hate him and hate that there is a difference between the two and I can’t currently remember what it is.
I enjoyed it.
That’s the thing sitting in my chest when I finally open my eyes and stare at the ceiling. Not just tolerated. Not just endured. I enjoyed every single second of my wedding night with the man I have sworn to kill, and my body has woken up this morning with the evidence of that all over it and there is nowhere to put the humiliation of it except directly into fuel.
Fine. I sit up. Fine. He wants a war? He has one.
Razvan’s side of the bed is empty and cold, which means he’s been up for hours, which means I’ve lost the first battle of the day before it started. I get up, shower, dress, and go downstairs with my jaw set and my game face on and my entire plan being to make this man’s life as difficult as humanly possible.
He’s in the kitchen.
Not his office. Not the dining room. The kitchen, standing at the counter with coffee, reading something on his phone, and Theo is at the table eating what appears to be an architectural projectmade of toast soldiers, narrating the construction process to no one in particular.
“You’re in my kitchen,” I say.
Razvan doesn’t look up. “It’s my kitchen.”
