Page 63 of Wicked Mafia Sinner

"Tell me to stop." The words fall against my lips. "Tell me and I stop."

"Do not stop."

"Cora."

"Rowan." I frame his face in my hands, the stubble biting my palms. "I'm here. I walked through the door. I took off my clothes. My legs are around your waist and I swear to God if you give me one more exit I'm going to take it just to come back in again to prove a point."

The sound catches in his throat, half breath, half a joy so unfamiliar he doesn't know how to let it out. His mouth finds the hinge of my jaw, the spot below my ear, the column of my neck where my pulse slams hard enough for both of us to count.

"Khorosho." He murmurs it against my throat, the warmth of his breath spreading over my skin. "Then I'll take care of you."

His mouth travels down my neck, across my collarbone, to the curve of my breast where water collects in the hollow. His lips close over my nipple and the heat of his mouth against the warm spray pulls a sound from my throat that bounces off every stone surface in the room. My fingers grip his shoulders, the ink moving under my hands as the muscles shift.

He takes his time, that devastating patience turned tender. His mouth moves between my breasts while his hands hold me pinned against the wall, the stone cold and smooth against my back, his body a furnace along my front. Every touch is deliberate. Every kiss lands in a place that makes me arch or gasp or dig my nails deeper into his skin.

His hand slides between us, his fingers finding me. The first touch sends my head back against the stone, my mouth open, water running over my face. He strokes slowly, reading my body with precision and patience. Rowan Volkov does not touch without understanding first.

"You're ready," he says, and it isn't a question.

"I've been ready since the terrace."

He shifts his grip, adjusting our position against the wall. The glass is to our left, the lake vast and dark beyond it, the pool light painting everything in blue. His forehead presses against mine, his hand cupping the back of my head, fingers threading into my wet hair.

"Look at me."

I lift my gaze to his. Water streams over the hard planes of his face, those ice-blue eyes gone nearly black, the silver at his temples darkened by the spray. Restraint trembles in every muscle pressed against me.

I reach between us and take him in hand. His sharp intake of breath vibrates against my lips. The size of him in my palm sends a fresh rush of heat flooding between my thighs. I stroke him once from root to tip, the silky steel length of him hot in my fingers. The sound he makes is low, animalistic, stripped of every layer of restraint he's maintained since the night he caught me mid-air in my hallway.

"Cora." My name on his lips is a warning wrapped in a prayer.

I guide him to my entrance. His forehead drops harder against mine, his breath ragged through clenched teeth.

He pushes into me. Slowly, so slowly that every fraction of an inch registers as its own event in my body. The stretch begins and it is overwhelming, the size of him filling me in a way that borders on too much. My gasp is sharp, my fingers curling into his shoulders hard enough to leave marks.

His hand tightens in my hair. He stops, waits, his breathing as ragged as mine, his forehead hot against my skin. He stays absolutely still while my body learns the size of him, adjusts to the fullness.

"Breathe, malyshka." His voice is barely sound. "I've got you."

I breathe. The stretch eases, shifts, becomes pressure, and then delicious fullness. He reads the change in my face and pushes deeper another inch, and then pauses. The patience he’s giving to my care cracks me open with love for this man.

When he's fully inside me, we both go still. The water runs over us, the lake stretching beyond the glass, blue light turning our skin to cold sapphire. His eyes hold mine and neither of us breathes.

"Blyad'," he whispers, his jaw flexing, the cords in his neck standing taut.

"Is that Russian for 'you feel incredible' or Russian for 'I need a minute'?"

He exhales. The sound is half laugh, half surrender, shaking through his body into mine. The vibration sends a ripple through every place where we're connected.

"Both," he says. "It's both."

Then he moves. Slow at first, long, deliberate strokes that let me feel every inch of him. My body rises to meet each one with an instinct I never knew I carried. The stone wall is cool against my back, his hands hot on my hips, the water warm between us. The sounds I'm making fill the room, bouncing off glass, off stone, coming back desperate in a register I've never visited.

He's quiet, nearly silent, the contrast between my noise and his silence making both louder. His breathing hitches when I clench around him. A low groan tears from his throat when I drag my nails down his back. My name falls from his mouth in the space between thrusts, spoken against my temple, my cheek, my mouth.

"Good girl." He says it against my mouth when I take him deeper, when my hips find the rhythm of his and match it and exceed it. "That's my good girl."

Something inside me collapses. Not the orgasm, not yet, but a wall I never knew I was holding up. The sound I make is a sob that has nothing to do with pain and everything to do with the weight of wanting this man and finally having him inside my body where the wanting started.