Page 21 of Sin Wager
“Harder,” she gasps, the word spilling out like she can’t stop it.
My mouth twists into a grin against her throat. “I’ll give you harder.”
I drive into her with punishing thrusts, each one making the headboard rattle. She moans louder, her hips rising to meet me,and the feel of her taking me so deep shreds what’s left of my restraint.
“Look at me,” I order, my hand tangling in her hair to tilt her face up. Her eyes lock on mine, wide and dark, her lips parted on a whimper.
“That’s it,” I growl, snapping my hips harder. “Take it. All of it.”
Her body clenches around me, slick and desperate, and she sobs out my name, the sound raw and unguarded. It sends a jolt straight through me, makes me pound into her even deeper, determined to keep her there—right on the edge of breaking.
Her body bows beneath me, every muscle tight, every sound spilling out of her throat ragged and unrestrained. I feel her pulse around me, gripping hard, dragging me closer to the edge with her.
“Come for me,” I snarl against her mouth, driving deep, each thrust harder than the last. “I want to feel you lose it.”
Her cry shatters, high and desperate, as her release crashes over her. She writhes beneath me, clutching at my shoulders, her walls spasming around my cock in relentless waves. The squeeze rips a curse out of me, my rhythm breaking as I slam into her, chasing the heat that’s burning through my spine.
“Fuck—Vera,” I groan, teeth gritted as I bury myself to the hilt. Release tears out of me, hot and violent, flooding her as I hold her tight against me. Her nails rake down my back, her body milking every drop until I collapse over her, both of us gasping, drenched in sweat.
For a long moment, the only sound is our breathing, harsh and uneven. She’s trembling, her lips against my jaw, and I can still feel her fluttering around me, unwilling to let go. I press a rough kiss to her mouth, claiming it one last time before I finally ease back, though my cock stays buried inside her.
“You’re mine now,” I rasp, my forehead resting against hers.
Her answer comes in a whisper, raw and spent. “I know.”
9
VERA
Iwake to sunlight streaming through unfamiliar windows and an arm heavy across my waist. The events of last night flood back—dinner, wine, Misha's hands on my skin, the way he made me feel alive. My cheeks burn at the memory.
Misha sleeps beside me, his dark hair mussed from my fingers, his face relaxed in a way I haven't seen before. The tattoos on his chest rise and fall with each breath. He looks younger lying next to me, but I'm not foolish enough to believe we could ever really be something. He's not my father's age, but closer to that than to something that would resemble an appropriate age for me.
I should leave, slip out quietly, find my dress, call a cab. Batya will wonder where I spent the night, though he's never questioned my independence before. The responsible thing would be to go home, shower, pretend this was a beautiful mistake that can't happen again.
But I don't want to leave. I want to memorize the way the morning light plays across his skin, the way his arm feels possessive even in sleep.
His eyes open, those ice-blue depths focusing on me immediately. "Good morning," he says gruffly, his grip tightening.
"Good morning." My voice comes out a little rough and I clear my throat. "I should probably?—"
"Stay for breakfast." He pulls me closer, his lips finding the sensitive spot below my ear. "I make excellent coffee."
"I need to get to work. The horses?—"
"Can wait another hour." His hand traces down my spine, and I shiver despite the warmth of the room. "Besides, you work too hard. When was the last time someone took care of you?"
The observation is a keen one. I can't remember the last time anyone worried about my needs instead of the other way around. My mother was the same way, though she firmly believed women take care of the men in their lives. And yet, there is this soul craving I have to be nurtured and cared for.
"I really should go," I say, but my resolve weakens when he kisses my shoulder.
"Then let me drive you. I was heading that direction anyway."
Twenty minutes later, I'm dressed in yesterday's clothes, feeling conspicuous and rumpled. Misha appears in dark jeans and a crisp white shirt that makes his eyes look even more intense. He hands me a travel mug of coffee that tastes better than anything I could make at home, and I wonder if there's a chance he could stop by my place so I can grab something more suitable for work.
"Thank you," I say, inhaling the rich aroma.
"You don't have to thank me for coffee, Vera." His kiss, pressed to my forehead, is warm and intense, and I find myself enjoying it more than I know is acceptable. This man is high-class, and I'm a stable hand. I don't belong in his world in any way, besides the fact that I'm probably twenty years younger than him.
