Page 56 of The Glass Empire
"Monika," he said against my mouth. "Monika."
He stood, pulling me up with him, and then I was in his arms, my legs wrapped around his waist, my robe gaping open. He carried me out of the study and down the hallway, his steps sure despite the dark, and I buried my face in his neck and breathed him in.
Cedar. Smoke. Something clean.
Something that felt like home.
His bedroom was larger than mine, darker, the curtains drawn against the moon. There was a fire here too, burning low, casting shadows that moved like dancers on the walls. He laid me on the bed—his bed, the sheets cool and crisp beneath me—and stood at the edge, looking down at me.
"Have you done this before?" he asked.
"Not... not like this."
"Good." He reached for the hem of his sweater and pulled it over his head. I watched his body emerge—the broad shoulders, the muscled chest, the scars. So many scars. Some old, some new, some still pink and healing. A map of violence, written on his skin. "I want to be your first for everything that matters."
He undressed me slowly.
Not the way Gabriel had, fumbling and desperate. Aleksander took his time. He untied the belt of my robe and pushed it from my shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. He pulled my nightgown over my head, his fingers grazing my skin, raisinggoosebumps in their wake. He unhooked my bra—one hand, practiced, efficient—and slid it down my arms.
He looked at me. Just looked. His eyes traveled over my body like he was memorizing it, like he was learning a language he'd been waiting his whole life to speak.
"Beautiful," he said. "So beautiful."
He kissed my collarbone. My shoulder. The hollow of my throat. He kissed the space between my breasts, the curve of my ribs, the soft skin of my stomach. He kissed me like I was something sacred, something to be worshipped.
"Aleksander—"
"Shh." He looked up at me, his grey eyes dark with want. "Let me."
He kissed lower. His mouth found the waistband of my underwear, and he hooked his fingers in the elastic and pulled them down my legs. I was naked beneath him, completely naked, and I should have felt exposed. Vulnerable. Afraid.
But I didn't.
I felt seen.
He stood and removed the rest of his clothes—his pants, his boxers, the watch he wore on his left wrist. His body was beautiful in the firelight, all hard lines and shadows, and I reached for him without thinking.
He came to me. He settled between my legs, his weight braced on his elbows, his forehead pressed against mine.
"Last chance," he said. "Tell me to stop."
I wrapped my legs around his waist.
"Don't stop."
He pushed inside me slowly—achingly slowly, inch by inch, giving my body time to adjust. I gasped. My nails dug into his shoulders. He was bigger than I'd expected, thicker, and the stretch of him was almost too much.
"Breathe," he whispered. "Just breathe."
I breathed. He waited. The fire crackled. The clock ticked. Somewhere in the house, a floorboard creaked.
When I relaxed, he moved.
The pace he set was slow. Torturous. He withdrew almost all the way, then pushed back in, his eyes never leaving mine. He watched me the whole time—watched my face as I came apart beneath him, watched my mouth open and close, watched my eyes flutter and close and open again.
"You're so good," he said. "So perfect. My good girl."
The words did something to me. Something I didn't expect. They settled in my chest, warm and heavy, and I felt myself tighten around him.
