Page 20 of Cruel Submission

“But—”

He covers my mouth with his hand, the gesture both commanding and intimate. “I said no talking, zaychik. I need you quiet. I need you here, under me, letting me prove to myself that you’re real.”

I don’t understand this strange desperation rolling from him, but I nod against his palm. He removes his hand slowly, replacing it with his mouth in a kiss that’s all possession and relief tangled together.

His fingers work my bra clasp open, and the garment falls away, and then his mouth is on my bare skin, tongue circling my nipple before he pulls it between his teeth. Not hard enough to hurt, just enough to make me whimper.

“That’s it,” he says against my skin. “I want to hear you.”

His hand slides down my stomach, over my hip, between my thighs. When his fingers press against the damp fabric of my underwear, I groan, hips lifting.

“So wet already.” His voice drops lower, rougher. “Is this for me, zaychik?”

“You,” I manage. “Always you.”

Something flashes across his face—triumph and vulnerability wrapped together. He hooks his fingers in my panties and pulls them down my legs slowly, deliberately, his eyes never leaving mine.

The cool air hits my exposed skin, but it’s nothing compared to the heat in his touch as he spreads my thighs wider. He kneels between them, still fully clothed, and the contrast makes me dizzy.

“I’m going to taste you,” he says, and it’s not a question.

“Arkady—”

“And you’re going to let me take my time.”

He lowers his head before I can respond, and the first touch of his tongue against me is enough to steal whatever words I had. Slow, deliberate strokes that build a fire under my skin. He explores every fold, every nerve ending, exploring me with focused intensity.

When he slides two fingers inside me while his tongue works, I come apart with a cry that echoes off the library ceiling. My whole body bows off the rug, only his free hand on my hip keeping me from levitating entirely.

But he doesn’t stop. Even as I’m still trembling through the waves, he’s working me higher again with ruthless precision. Like he knows exactly how to break me down and rebuild me stronger.

“Too much,” I gasp, fingers tangling in his hair.

“Not enough.” He adds a third finger, and the stretch makes me moan. “I need more.”

“Please—”

“Please what?” He looks up at me, mouth glistening, eyes dark with lust. “Please stop? Or please don’t ever stop?”

“Don’t stop.” The admission costs me something, but I give it to him anyway. “Please don’t stop.”

His smile is savage and tender all at once. “Good girl.”

The praise does something to me. Makes me needier, more desperate. I pull at his shirt, wanting the barrier between us gone. He helps me strip it off, revealing the dense inkwork that covers his shoulders, throat, and upper chest. The stylized wings and feathers that climb his neck and frame his jaw.

My fingers trace the lines of ink, learning them by touch. When I reach the scar through his right eyebrow, he catches my hand and brings it to his mouth, pressing a kiss to my palm.

“Your turn,” he says, voice rough.

He strips off the rest of his clothes with the same efficiency he used on mine. And then he’s naked above me, all hard muscle and predatory grace, his cock hard and heavy against my thigh.

“I need inside you,” he says. “Need to feel you around me.”

“Yes.” I’m already reaching for him, guiding him to my entrance. “Yes, please… now.”

He slides in slowly, watching my face the entire time. The stretch is exquisite, almost painful, but I don’t want him to stop. I want to feel this—want to feel him everywhere.

When he’s fully seated, he stills. He pauses a moment, breath ragged.