Page 72 of The Enforcer's Vow
I stand and move to straddle his lap, careful of his injured ribs. He winces slightly as I settle against him, but his hands come up to rest on my hips.
His hands grip my hips tighter, thumbs pressing into the curve of my waist. Even injured, he’s strong beneath me, solid in a way that grounds everything inside me. I reach for the hem of my tank top and pull it over my head, then slip my bra off and drop it too. His gaze tracks every inch of exposed skin. There's no hesitation in the way he looks at me—no hesitation in the way he palms my breasts, rough fingers sliding across my nipples until they pebble under his touch.
“I need your mouth,” I say.
He doesn’t make me ask twice. He leans forward, lips closing over one nipple while his hand works the other. Heat coils low in my belly. I grind against him, my leggings rubbing against the hard line of his cock beneath his slacks. He groans against my skin, breath hot, and his hand slides down to cup me through the thin fabric. The contact makes me jolt.
“So wet already,” he murmurs.
“You’re the reason,” I tell him, and I mean it.
I push up, standing just long enough to strip out of my leggings and underwear. I don’t bother with anything slow or seductive. I want him too much. I want him inside me, filling me, making me forget the blood and the fire and the fear. When I climb back onto his lap, he unzips his slacks just enough to free his cock.
My fingers close around him, stroking a few times. He’s thick and hard, flushed dark at the tip. His head falls back against the couch, jaw clenched, and I feel the tension vibrating through him.
“Zoya.”
I guide him to my entrance and sink down in one slow, unbroken motion. My breath catches as he fills me completely. Too much and exactly enough at the same time. My hands brace against his chest, careful near his wrapped ribs, but I can feel the tautness of his pecs under my palms. He groans, hands back on my hips, fingers digging in as I start to move.
The rhythm is unhurried at first, a deep grind that forces us both to feel everything. The stretch, the heat, the way our bodies lock together. He thrusts up into me once, hard enough to punch a gasp from my lungs, then bites back a curse.
“You’re going to make that cut bust open,” I pant.
“Then ride me slower,” he growls, but it’s not angry. He’s desperate for this connection too because that’s what this is. It’s not pointless sex for sex’s sake. We need each other, like fire and oxygen, like water in a desert. Maksim is my other half, my other side, and I’m not whole unless he’s in me, filling me.
I smile and rotate my hips. His eyes roll back for a second. I keep the pace steady, deliberate, the angle just right to make pleasure spark every time I roll forward. His thumb drags up between my legs and circles my clit with ruthless precision. My thighs start to tremble.
“Harder,” I whisper, begging him to really fuck me.
He shifts under me, finding a better position, and his hips rise again. I brace against his shoulders and meet every thrust with my own. His cock hits deeper now. Every movement wrings sound from me, breathy moans and broken cries I can’t hold back. His hand moves to the back of my neck, pulling me down to kiss him, though he grunts when I lean on his chest too hard, but he fucks me through it.
Our mouths stay fused as we move—tongue, teeth, breath—while I ride him harder, faster. The couch creaks beneath us. His other hand slides down to my ass, gripping me, guiding medown onto every thrust. My whole body tightens around him, and when he pinches my clit between two fingers, I shatter.
Sharp and blinding pleasure rips through me, and I cry out against his mouth. My walls clench around him, and he groans loud and rough as he follows me over. His hips jerk up one last time, burying himself to the hilt as he spills inside me. His arms wrap around my waist, holding me there, keeping me close.
We don’t move for a long moment. I can feel his heartbeat against my chest, wild and erratic. His breath fans against my neck, still uneven. I press a kiss to his temple, then his jaw and feel his day-old stubble under my sensitive lips, still kiss-swollen and tender.
“You’re okay?” I ask, not because I doubt it—but because we’ve both just survived too much to take anything for granted.
His hand slides up my spine. “I am now.”
I shift slightly, still seated on him, and he winces. I lean back and glance down. Blood has soaked through the edge of the bandages. He follows my gaze and exhales hard.
“Worth it,” he says.
“Idiot," I murmur.
“You love me.”
I don’t argue. I reach for a blanket draped over the back of the couch and pull it around us. I stay on his lap, our bodies still joined. For now, neither of us is ready to let go.
We lie together on the narrow couch, my head on his shoulder. I can feel his breathing gradually slow, can hear the way his heartbeat starts to even out. The adrenaline is finally leaving his system, and exhaustion is taking its place.
"Sleep," I tell him, my fingers tracing lazy patterns on his chest. "I'll keep watch."
He tries to protest, but his eyes are already closing. Within minutes, he's unconscious, his body finally giving in to the bloodloss and exhaustion. I pull the blanket tighter over both of us and settle in to wait.
I don't sleep. I can't. Every time I close my eyes, I see Damir's face in the tunnel. The way he looked at me when he realized I wasn't going to leave with him. The desperation in his voice when he begged me to run.
