Page 43 of Blood & Snow
Every stroke of his hand makes my thighs tremble, and the voice in my head won’t shut up—telling me this is wrong, telling me to stop watching—yet my body is already clenching around nothing, desperate for him.
My lips part but no sound comes.
He grips my thighs, yanks me to the edge, and positions himself.
The blunt head pushes against my entrance, stretching me, and then he drives in hard.
My scream echoes off the walls as he buries himself to the hilt, splitting me wide.
It's like I actually tear or something.
The pain is hot and fast, but it relaxes into the deepest pleasure after only a few thrusts.
“Oh, shit?—”
His hand clamps over my mouth.
“Quiet. You’ll wake the city," he hisses, and I expect his hand to move, which it does, but only barely.
It slides to my neck where his fingers curl around my pulse and squeeze.
He thrusts deep again, pace merciless, the slap of skin against skin filling the room.
The belt cuts into my wrists as I arch, desperate for every stroke hitting deeper than I thought possible.
“Your pussy takes me like you were made for it,” he growls, hips pounding into me.
"Squeeze me, little bird. Clench those muscles around my cock."
I whimper under his palm, body quaking, pleasure building again.
His grip intensifies, squeezing just enough to make my vision spark.
“You’ll come for me,Ptichka. You’ll come knowing you’re mine.”
His thumb rubs hard against my clit, his cock hammering deep, and I can’t hold back.
The orgasm rips through me violently.
My scream is raw, my body clenchingtight around him.
My head spins with heat, dizzy from the way he fills me, from the way his control over me makes me lose myself.
I think of nothing but the raw stretch of him and the pulsing aftershocks dragging me higher.
He curses through clenched teeth, sweat dripping onto my skin as his thrusts grow ragged, his eyes fixed on me as though I’m the only thing in the world.
The bed creaks, my wrists burn against the belt, and still I can’t stop arching into him, desperate for every punishing stroke.
He drives harder, chasing his own release, and the look on his face sears into me—possessive, unyielding.
“Fuck!”
His grip finally relents with one final brutal drive, and he spills inside me, filling me until it leaks down my thighs.
He stays buried, chest heaving, hand still resting on my throat as though daring me to deny what just happened.
For long seconds, only our breathing exists.
