Page 2 of My Wedding Night Massacre

“You’re still dressed,” she said.

“Give me a second.”

“We have eighteen minutes.”

I kissed her instead of answering, got my hands under the backs of her thighs, and lifted her. She locked her legs around my hips, making a noise against my mouth that was somewhere between satisfaction and impatience.

I got a hand between us, feeling the heat of her through the thin fabric still in the way. She sucked in a breath, her fingers curling into my shoulders.

“Off,” she said.

I pulled the fabric aside and stroked through her pussy, feeling how soaking wet she already was, how her cunt had been waiting for this through every hour of that reception. I pressed my lips to her ear, dragged my teeth along the shell of it, and pushed two fingers inside her while she was still gasping from that. The sound she made was one I’d level buildings to hear again.

I worked her slowly, fingers curling deep, thumb circling her clit, my mouth still at her ear, breathing her in. Her mouth fell open, and her thighs clamped around my hand like she was afraid I’d stop.

“Don’t be slow right now,” she complained.

I pressed deeper just to hear her gasp. “Say please.”

She grabbed my face with both hands and said my name against my mouth instead.

My cock was rock hard by the time I freed it, already leaking at the tip. I stroked myself once just to keep from driving into her like an animal. I pressed the head against her entrance, felt her heat, felt how wet she was even there, and pushed in slowly, watching every flicker of her expression as her pussy took me inch by inch. The sound she made was low and wrecked and I swallowed it with my mouth over hers.

She was tight, so fucking tight, and warm. The drag of her cunt around my cock as I started to move short-circuited every thought in my head. I buried myself to the root and stayed there, feeling her pussy flutter around me as she adjusted, her legs locked around my hips, her forehead against mine, both of us breathing hard in the dark. I pulled back until just the tip remained inside her, held it there for one torturous second, then drove back in all the way. She rolled her hips with impatience, her nails finding the back of my neck. All my patience went with it.

I fucked her hard and fast and completely without apology, both hands on her hips now, pulling her down onto my cock with every upward thrust, the wet sounds of her pussy taking me filling the small room along with her bitten-off gasps and the low sounds I couldn’t keep entirely behind my teeth. The wall shuddered. She shuddered. I drove into her again and again, pulling back just far enough to feel the drag of her walls around me before burying myself to the hilt, needing the depth, needing to feel all of her around all of me.

Because this was Pavlina, my Pavlina, and no matter how many times I had her it was never enough and I’d long since stopped pretending it would be. She clawed at my back through my shirt and said my name. I fucked her through the sound of it, through the way it wrecked me, through everything, because stopping wasn’t something I was capable of anymore, not with her, not ever.

Her nails raked down my back through my shirt and I drove into her harder, deeper, my cock splitting her open with every thrust, chasing the sound she made when I hit that spot deep inside her. She gasped and I fucked her through it, through the love I had for her that lived right alongside the need and made both of them unbearable.

There isn’t a version of my life that doesn’t have her in it. My father can disagree all he wants, but this isn’t negotiable. She’s mine.

She came with a silent full body shudder, her cunt locking down around my cock like a vice, milking me, pulling at me. I fucked her straight through it without mercy because the way she was clinging to me told me she didn’t want mercy, she wanted more. Her pussy pulsed and fluttered around me, but I kept driving in, deep, hard, and relentless, until she gasped that she couldn’t take it anymore. I put my mouth to her ear and told her she could. She proved me right thirty seconds later, coming apart a second time with her head thrown back.

I came with my face buried in her neck, emptying inside her in long, heavy pulses, my cock jerking with every wave of it. I gripped her hips and held her down on me, grinding deep, fucking every drop of it into her cunt. She made a soft, broken sound against my shoulder, and I rolled my hips once, twice, working every last drop deeper into her because she was mine and I wanted her to feel that for the rest of the night, for every hour of every conversation she’d have to smile through with my cum still warm inside her.

I set her down slowly after, my hands steadying her hips until she found her footing. She put a hand flat on my chest for a moment, catching her breath. We stayed like that in the dark without speaking.

The reception filtered through the walls. Glasses, laughter, and the low pulse of music. Somewhere below us, Bogdan Lyubimtsev was laughing his warm, generous laugh at something my father almost certainly didn’t find funny. She looked up at me with her hair loose, her lips swollen, and her eyes soft. I looked back and knew for sure that I’d burn everything for her and not mind the smell of smoke.

We had to go back, and we both knew it. She picked up the dress, shook it out, stepped back into it, and turned her back to me for the buttons. I did them up one by one, my hands steadier than they had any right to be. She turned and straightened my tie without being asked, both hands smoothing down the front of my shirt, fixing what she’d undone.

“The lipstick,” she said.

I wiped my jaw. She tilted her head and reached up to fix what I’d missed, her thumb at the corner of my mouth in a touch that was there and gone before I could act on it.

“Now you’re presentable,” she said.

She walked out first. I watched the door close behind her, standing in the dark room for two full minutes just breathing. I’m very good at sliding the mask back on. It’s the thing I was built for. Tonight it takes longer than usual.

I re-enter the reception loose in a way I almost never allow myself to be, warm and satisfied. The ballroom folds around me, and for a moment I just stand inside it, letting myself feel what I usually keep at arm’s length. This is mine. She’s mine.

Misha appears at my elbow and makes the comment about the lipstick stain on my collar. I ignore him and find a drink. Unfortunately, I also find my father across the room.

Maxim Yeleshev has a glass in his hand he isn’t drinking, his eyes already on me from across the room. That expression on his face is one I know well by now, one he’s been wearing since I told him I was marrying Pavlina. Disapproval worn so deep it’s become something closer to grief, as though he already knows how this ends and he’s the only one in the room who does.

I raise my glass in his direction, a toast, a greeting, the performance of a man with nothing to explain, because I don’t owe him one. I made my choice. I’d make it again.