Page 30 of Arranged for the Russian Pakhan

Fuck.

She starts to cum before I’m even all the way buried inside her.

Her back falls into an arch so deep, it’s a cocoon to fall into. I nearly do, bending over her, and stop myself just in time. I’ve stolen the advantage her heels gave her height, but her orgasm will thank me for it. The spirit of innovation has me gripping her at the knee and hoisting it up to the dresser’s edge, spreading her wide, wider still, to slam the fuck into.

She chokes on her own whimper when I bury myself inside of her, buried to the hilt. Where I won’t allow her more than a handful of seconds to adjust to the size, I go slower with the deep, punishing strokes I pound inside her with.

I barely allow the spasms to weaken before my thumb grazes her throbbing red clit. She nearly sends me into an early grave when her muscles jerk anew, carrying her on new waves, and her every breath leaves her like it’s all she can do to keep her head above water. I hold her upright with a forearm roped around her, the weight of her breast in my palm, her nipple a distraction I pinch and roll and pluck at to keep a fucking hold of myself.

Her walls flutter and flutter.

She’s still not one to just stand there and take it. Darya pushes back, meeting every thrust with a downward roll of her hips, refusing to yield, and breaking my skin, too, wherever her talons drag. The back of my neck, my arms, my thigh. And I don’t fucking care.

Everything burns already.

Every speck of my control goes into keeping my release at bay, breathing, panting, pleasure boiling in my groin, threatening to spill.

She makes it fucking worse. With every sound. With every writhe of her perfect fucking body. Mindlessly, needily, Darya writhes against me. She clenches her cunt around me, trying to milk me, yanking at the thread on my control like it’s her life’s purpose. Her single-minded focus.

There are tears in her eyes, and still, they meet mine in the reflection.

And it almost doesn’t fucking matter that I don’t recognize the man in the mirror. All I’ve got eyes for is her.

This goddamn woman.

Darya.

Darya Yuri-Zakharov.

My wife.

“Let it go,” she whines, her head falling back against me, curls bunched and remnant pins stabbing my chest. “Let it go, Anton—”

Even now, she challenges me. Her pussy is drooling down my fucking thighs, and she’s still got the upper hand. Jesus Christ.

I come so hard, there are stars in my eyes. Her name is in my mouth, and it may as well be a prayer. The reverence is sickening. Helpless fucking reverence. As involuntary as the thick, hot spurts I pulse inside of her, filling her till I can’t tell if it’s her juices or my seed, trickling between her legs.

Darya.

The beginning of my end.

Chapter 11 - Darya

Air snags in my throat the instant my eyes fly open.

Oh, God. There’s so much red.

I wake up confused and sore and parched—and my carafe of water is not where it should be. I hoisted myself upright with fistfuls of cool, crisp white sheets in place of the deep emerald ones my housekeeper, Vera, most recently chose. My head whirls, and black spots cascade before my eyes.

Never have I ever awoken in a bed and not known where I am. After today, I can’t say that anymore. I have to say I’m not a fan of this feeling—the panic that balloons in my chest, obstructing common sense, is inconvenient at best. It takes a minute to come back to myself. The wedding band on my finger assists, a gleaming anchor to reality.

I’m wearing a wedding band.

Because I am married now. I’m married to Anton Zakharov.

“Who you fucked last night,” I add to myself, able to forgive myself the crudeness in light of recent events. “Without so much as a condom.”

The reminder is enough to make me leap out from under the covers like I’ve been bitten. Furiously, my head whips back and forth, wild eyes searching for my new husband.