Page 79 of Cruel Submission

He makes a sound—half groan, half exhale—and kisses me harder. His hands slide down my sides, over my hips, gripping my ass and pulling me flush against him. I feel how hard he is, feel the rigid length of him pressed between us, but he doesn’t rush.

He just holds me. Kisses me like I’m oxygen and he’s been holding his breath for days.

My eyes crack open for another second. His face is so close I can see every detail—the sharp line of his jaw, the way his lashes cast shadows on his cheekbones, the vulnerability in his expression that he never lets anyone see.

I tug at the waistband of his pants, wanting to feel his skin. He lifts his hips and pulls them down, kicking them away before settling against me again. His legs are warm and strong, the coarse hair bristling against my skin. I hook my calf between them, pulling him closer, grinding my mound against his hard cock.

Then he shifts, pressing me onto my back, and my eyes close again.

Too much. Everything is too much.

His body covers mine, solid and warm and safe. One hand slides between us, finding the heat between my thighs. His fingers move over me with maddening slowness—gentle circles, light pressure against my clit—and I arch into his touch with a soft moan.

“That’s it,” he murmurs against my collarbone. “Let me take care of you.”

I’m not sure who’s taking care of who.

His fingers slide inside me, and I gasp, clenching around the intrusion. He curls them just right, stroking that spot that always sends me over the edge, and I’m already close. Already shaking.

“Arkady—”

“I know.” He kisses the swell of my breast. “Come for me, zaychik.”

The orgasm hits slowly at first, then all at once. My body tightens around his fingers, thighs shaking, breath caught in my throat. He doesn’t stop. Just keeps working me through it, drawing it out until I’m boneless and gasping.

When I come down, he withdraws his hand and positions himself at my entrance. Pauses.

“Look at me,” he says softly.

I force my eyes open. Meet his gaze. His eyes are raw. Open. Completely unguarded.

“I need you,” he says. Not a demand. Just truth. “I need this.”

“Then take it.” My voice is hoarse. “Take me.”

He slides inside with one slow thrust, and we both go still.

The sensation is overwhelming. Not just physical—though God, he feels incredible—but emotional. Like every wall between us has crumbled, and there’s nothing left but this. Him inside me. My legs wrapped around his hips. Our hearts beating in sync.

He drops his forehead to mine. “Mirabel—”

“Don’t talk.” I cup his face with both hands. “Just feel.”

So he does.

He moves inside me with a rhythm that’s neither fast nor slow. Just steady. Deliberate. Each thrust measured, like he’s trying to memorize every second of this.

I can’t keep my eyes open. Can only feel—his skin against mine, the pull and stretch as he fills me, the way my body yields to his like it was made for this.

His hands are everywhere. Cupping my breast. Stroking my thigh. Tangling in my hair. Tracing the line of my spine. Like he’s trying to touch every part of me at once, trying to prove to himself I’m really here.

“You’re mine,” he says against my throat. “Say it.”

“Yours.” The word falls from my lips without hesitation. “I’m yours.”

He groans, the sound vibrating through his chest into mine. His thrusts become faster, harder, but still not rough. Still tender despite the desperation bleeding through.

I tighten around him, and he curses in Russian—something filthy from the sound of it, and it’s so damned hot I clench tighter around him.