Page 75 of Stolen Empire
Why does this feel so right?
He’s a killer, a king in a world of blood and betrayal, and I’m just the thief he ensnared.
But in moments like this, when he’s buried inside me, pounding relentlessly, I feel alive—truly, dangerously alive.
His control isn’t a prison.
It’s a drug, addicting me to the power play, to the way he makes me submit and fight all at once.
His hand snakes between our battling hips, fingers finding my clit, circling with expert pressure that has me gasping.
“You’re mine, Katya,” he growls, leaning over me, his chest crushing my tits, teeth nipping my shoulder.
“No walking away. No more games."
I push back against him, meeting his rhythm, the slap of skin on skin echoing in the apartment.
“Then make me stay,” I challenge, even as sensations of pleasure build, coiling tight in my core.
He’s so deep, hitting that spot that makes stars erupt behind my eyelids.
I shouldn’t want his possession.
It’s toxic, a chain around my freedom.
But fuck, the danger excites me—the thought that he could lock me away, keep me as his secret weapon, his lover.
It terrifies and arouses me in equal measure, this man who could end me but chooses to wreck me with ecstasy instead.
He pulls out suddenly and hooks my legs over his shoulders, thrusting back in with a force that knocks the breath from my lungs.
His eyes lock on mine as he drives into me harder, faster.
I reach up, fingers threading through his hair, pulling him down for a messy kiss.
Our tongues wage war, mirroring the frenzy below—him claiming, me yielding and taking.
Sweat slicks our skin and the air seems impossible to inhale.
I'm suffocating and coming alive in every breath as his fingers find my clit again.
I'm tensing, coiling up for an explosion, and he takes pleasure in it.
He’s death incarnate, and I’m the fool who blooms under his touch.
Why? Because in his world, control is survival, and submitting to him feels like defying the odds.
It turns me on, this edge-walking, the way his dominance strips away my façades, leaves me raw and wanting.
His pace stutters, fingers rubbing my clit in tight circles.
“Come for me,” he commands, and the raspy way he says it pushes my buttons.
I clench, working for it, arching my hips to the right angle, and it comes, rushing in so thoroughly, I can't breathe.
The orgasm hits like a tidal wave, crashing through me, my walls clenching around him as I scream.
Pleasure explodes—white-hot, blinding—my body shaking, toes curling.
