Page 102 of Forced to Marry the Russian Pakhan
And then I move.
Slow at first. A roll of my hips, a grind that makes us both gasp. The friction is divine—his cock thick and hard inside me,dragging along every nerve ending as I rise and sink, again and again, building a rhythm that’s all mine.
His hands are everywhere—cupping my breasts, thumbs brushing over my nipples until they pebble under his touch. One hand slides down my spine, anchoring me to him. The other grips my ass, guiding my movement, but letting me lead.
I lean back slightly, arching my spine, using the angle to take him even deeper. He groans my name, guttural and reverent, like a man on the edge of worship.
“You feel—fuck—Yulia—” His hands grip harder, but he doesn’t stop me. Doesn’t try to take control. Heletsme ride him.Wantsme to.
I set a faster pace, thighs burning, dress bunched around my waist, sweat glistening at the base of my throat. I can feel him everywhere—his mouth on my collarbone, his tongue tasting the hollow of my neck, the stubble on his jaw scraping the soft swell of my breast.
I slide one hand between us, brushing his lower stomach, then lower, finding where we’re joined, circling my clit as I ride him.
It’stoo much—but I want more.
His eyes lock with mine, dark and full of fire. “You’re going to kill me,” he rasps.
I smile through the haze of heat. “You’ll die happy.”
And I keep going, rising and falling, clenching around him, moaning softly as I bring us both closer with every roll of my hips.
He’s panting now, barely holding on. “Yulia—Jesus—if you keep going—”
But I don’t stop.
Not yet.
Not until I’ve taken everything from him.
Because I want him to remember this.Me.
And when he flips me over a moment later, growling like a man possessed, I know I’ve won.
I made the king lose control.
“Mine,” he says, voice rough as he slides back into me. “Say it.”
“Yours,” I gasp as he begins to move, harder now, deeper. “Always yours.”
The pace he sets is relentless, each thrust deeper, harder—like he’s trying to bury himself in every part of me.
I wrap my legs around his waist, heel digging into the small of his back, urging him closer. Every time he drives into me, it hits that perfect spot deep inside—over and over, until I’m panting his name against his throat, nails clawing at his shoulders.
The pleasure builds low in my belly, a molten heat coiling tighter with every slam of his hips. It spreads—through my thighs, my spine, the tips of my breasts, where his chest brushes against mine with every ragged breath.
I can’t breathe. I don’twantto breathe.
His mouth finds mine again—rough, needy—then drags down my neck, biting the soft spot below my ear. “You feel so fucking good,” he groans, voice ragged. “Tight… wet… mine.”
The word breaks something open inside me. Because Iamhis. And he’s mine.
My hands cup his face, forcing him to look at me. “Don’t stop.”
His jaw clenches as he slams into me again, harder now. “Not planning to.”
I shatter a moment later.
The orgasm rips through me like a wave—violent, unstoppable. It starts at my core, spreads to my fingertips, my toes, and explodes behind my eyes like fireworks in the dark. My body clenches around him, a desperate, greedy pulse that drags him under with me.
