Page 108 of Maksym

She came with a cry that made the room inhale.

Her whole body clenched. The muscles in her back stood out. Her thighs shook. The wolf groaned and slowed but did not stop, letting her pulse around him and the crop handle. He gently pulled it free and tossed it aside. But he was not finished.

“I need another one from you. You can do it.”

I made a small, involuntary laugh. Not because it was funny. Because my mind had shorted out.

The idea of one orgasm under those conditions seemed impossible enough. The way Bohdan’s expression suggested the scene had not concluded made some hysterical, disbelieving sound escape me before I could kill it.

Maksym leaned toward my ear. His voice was darker than the room.

“I can promise you that and more.”

Every thought I possessed dropped dead.

I turned my head a fraction. His mouth was close to my ear, his breath cool against skin that felt far too hot. He did not smile. He did not look smug. He looked like a man stating a fact he had considered from several angles and found legally sound.

“Maksym,” I whispered.

I meant it as a warning. It sounded like something else. His eyes lowered to my mouth for one devastating second, then returned to the stage.

The wolf gripped the witch’s hips with both hands and thrust deeper. She gave a broken sound that might have been protest if not for the way her hips moved back toward him. He reached around her body, his hand disappearing between her thighs. His fingers found her clit. I knew the exact moment by the way her entire body jolted.

“There,” he murmured. “Right there. Give it to me.”

He worked her with firm, circling pressure while he fucked her from behind, each thrust driving her against his hand. The witch’s sounds rose. Not pretty now. Not composed. Raw, breathless, helpless by choice and therefore not helpless at all.

My grip on Maksym’s arm became unreasonable. He let me.

The second orgasm took her harder than the first. She detonated.

There was no better word for it. Her head snapped up, mouth open, then dropped again as her body shook so violently the leather cuffs strained. The wolf held her through it, hips driving once, twice, then burying deep as his own release overtook him. His face twisted. A low growl rolled out of him, not performative, not human. He folded over her back, one arm wrapping beneath her chest, the other braced on the bench as he pulsed inside her.

The room remained silent through the first few seconds afterward. Not awkward. Reverent, almost. The wolf pressed his face into the witch’s hair.

“You were perfect,” he murmured. “So good. I’ve got you.”

I heard it because the stage microphones caught enough. Or because Obsidian wanted us to hear that part most of all.

My own breathing had become uneven. My body felt too awake, too full of nerves, too conscious of Maksym’s hand over mine and my fingers wrapped around his arm as if he were the only fixed point in a room that had tilted on its axis.

Onstage, the witch sagged onto the bench, restrained and trembling. The wolf remained bent over her, murmuring into her hair. Bohdan stood in the silver light and said nothing. For once, the commentary had stopped exactly where it should.

The part that undid me was not the sex. That would have been simpler, and I had long ago learned that life rarely did me the courtesy of simplicity.

The wolf withdrew from the witch carefully, one hand braced on her hip, the other still wrapped around her front as if keeping her from returning to gravity too quickly. She made a small sound when he pulled away, not distress exactly, but aftermath. Her body had gone loose over the bench. All that earlier authority poured out and replaced by trembling softness.

No one rushed. That struck me first.

No one clapped too soon. No one whistled like the end of a performance had given them permission to become crude. The room waited while the wolf reached behind the bench and retrieved a towel. He cleaned himself enough to tuck his cock away and pull his pants back into place, but even that motion looked secondary. Functional. The task that mattered lay bent over leather, wrists and ankles cuffed in brass, still breathing hard.

He came back to her immediately.

His hand touched the center of her back. “Still green?”

She nodded, cheek against the padding.

“Words,” he said softly.