Page 24 of His Public Claim
“You can. Use me.”
She squirms her hips and where she’s wet lines up with where I’m rock-hard.
“That’s it.” I grip my cock and our gazes meet. We don’t look away as she moves, a bit awkwardly, until it’s just the right place. And then she eases down onto my length. The pleasure of her body is perfect, but the intensity of looking straight into her eyes and the love I feel for her being reflected? It magnifies the squeeze of her pussy to ecstasy.
She’s beautiful. She’s mine. And as she sinks until we’re fully joined, I’m so proud of her my heart might grab her and tuck her behind my rib cage with it. Keep her.
Cautiously, she rises up, just an inch, and eases back down. Her gaze flits from my eyes to the rest of my body, taking in the tattoos, hair, muscle.
I wonder if she’s noticed her tattoo. It’s a newer one, on my sternum, the centre of my chest.
She doesn’t comment though, moving on my cock, up and down, trying to find the best angle and rhythm. Maybe she doesn’t make the connection between that little mouse, and her. Both always kept close to my heart.
“Am I doing it right?” Uncertainty furrows her brow. “I want to do it right for you.”
What a question. I had no idea her family’s ignoring her adulthood had burrowed so far into her confidence.
“Myshka, you’re doing perfectly. You’re perfect.” I flex my hips upwards and we both gasp as I go further in. Closer. I can never get close enough to her. “We’re going to figure out what we enjoy together. You’re doing everything right for me if it feels good for you.”
She shifts back, stroking her palms down my abs until she’s sitting straight.
“Here.” I take her hands in mine, and nod when she looks unsure. “Trust me. Rely on me.”
When she lifts this time, she pushes down on my hands and I smile at the slight pressure, and it widens into a grin when she goes further, sending sensation up my shaft and almost popping me out of her before she comes back down firmly. I grunt as sparks fly from where we’re joined.
“You’re being such a good girl for me,” I tell her, and she glows with the praise. So I say more, in a mix of Russian and English. “My best girl, taking my cock right into your tight, virgin little pussy. A good girl for waiting for me, your first and last.”
“First and last,” she agrees with a whimper.
We’re connected in multiple ways. My cock lodged in her, obviously, but our hands and her gaze on me too. Then she’s riding me fully. No fear anymore, she speeds up, her tits bouncing. The feel of her tight pussy is incredible, her confidence is sexy, she’s glowing with it, but it’s the way she’s holding onto my hands, depending on me to keep her stable and safe that makes my heart expand.
This is so different to the last time we had sex. There’s nothing furtive or dirty about it. And I can tell she’s not hurting. I’m letting her learn, and with every stroke of our bodies together, each slap of our skin and wet noise of her arousal, it gets better and better.
And as I bring her hands to my shoulders, and searchher face to check she’s okay as I reach for the place where I’m spearing up into her, I murmur more words of love and adoration in my mother tongue. I find her clit with my thumb and look into her eyes then rest my hand on her lower tummy—exactly where our child will grow—and start to circle over the little nub. Her response is instant. My girl is so sensitive for me. She arches and cries out, and I rub more firmly.
“Krasivaya,” I breathe. She’s so beautiful. “Come,” I urge her. “Come on my cock.”
With my other hand, I cup the swell of breast and, seeing her begin to shake, I pinch her nipple. That’s enough. My thumb on her clit, my cock in her pussy, and a single point of pressure on her breast, and she screams. Nicole grips my length so hard I have to remove my hands from her and clench my fists to prevent myself from coming.
I keep it at bay—just—as she thrashes over me, throwing her head back and keening. She’s gorgeously uncontrolled and her orgasm is a whole-body event.
As she recovers from the peak, unclenching from around me, her breathing unsteady, I battle with the conflicting need to bounce her on my lap until I fill her up, or simply revel in looking at her, flushed with pleasure.
“Ya tebya lyublyu,” I tell her in Russian. “I love you.” I stroke my hands up her legs and over her stomach. “I can’t wait to see you pregnant with our child.”
“Really?”
I roll my hips and she lets out a little mewl.
“Myshka.” I grip her waist and thrust up as I pull her firmly onto me.
She moans, but her brows pinch together. “What does that mean?” she pants. “Myshka?”
“Little mouse.” And she is little. So small I can lift her up and down on my shaft. Like she’s my toy. Perfectly made for me.
Her mouth falls open, and her hand slides down to stroke her forefingers over the tattoo of the mouse on my chest. “Little mouse?”
“You’ve been in my heart for years. I wanted to have you on my body.” Even though I believed it was futile then, I’d known she was the one for me. “I thought that was the only way—that and taking photographs of you—that I’d never have you as near as I needed. I didn’t dream you could love me back.”
