Page 133 of Cruel Kiss

"I'm coming," I gasp.

And then I do, shattering apart against him, his arm the only thing keeping me upright. He murmurs praise in Russian into my hair while I fly apart, watching, wide open, beautiful, and entirely his.

Before I've even caught my breath, he turns me around and lifts me onto the edge of the counter. He steps out of his own clothes fast, and then he's between my knees. I wrap my legs around him and pull him in.

"Look at me," he says.

I do.

He pushes into me slow, and I hold his gaze the whole time. There's nothing between us, hasn't been since the lake, and I want it that way. I want all of him.

"There she is," he breathes. "My wife."

NotMs. Meadows.Notkotyonok.My wife. And this time, it isn't for a fed or a room full of criminals. It's just for us, in the bathroom, under the light, in front of the mirror we hung together.

He moves in me slow and deep, one hand braced on the counter and the other cupping the back of my head. I catch glimpses of us in the glass over his shoulder—his back, the scars I know the story of now, my own hands gripping him. I don't look away from any of it.

He drives into me deeper. The counter's cool edge bites into the backs of my thighs, the contrast sharp against the heat pooling everywhere else.

My hands slide from his shoulders down his back, nails catching in the grooves of scar tissue. Each thrust rocks me against the marble, my whole body tilting to meet him, and I don't close my eyes, not once, not even when it feels like too much.

His mouth finds the curve of my neck, teeth grazing, and his hand fists in my hair to tip my head back so my throat is bared for him. He kisses down the column of it, tongue tracing the pulse hammering there, while below, he keeps that slow, brutal rhythm that has me clenching around him.

I hook my ankles tighter at the small of his back, pulling him in with everything I have.

He answers with a groan against my collarbone, his hips snapping harder now, all thoughts of slowness gone out of him. The mirror rattles faintly against the wall with each drive forward. I catch our reflection again—his back flexing, the muscles rolling under his skin, my own knees splayed wide around him, my hands gripping his sides—and the sight of it winds me tighter than his mouth ever could.

His thumb finds my clit again, working small tight circles right where I need it. My whole body starts to shake apart at the seams.

He feels it, the way I tighten and flutter around him, and his rhythm goes ragged, chasing it, chasing me.

Sweat slicks between us where my chest presses to his. His forehead drops to mine and we breathe the same air.

I come first, hard, my back bowing up, my heels digging into him, everything in me pulling taut and then snapping loose all at once.

I clamp down around him and hear him swear against my mouth, one broken syllable, before his hips stutter and drive deep and hold there. He spills into me with a low, cracked sound, his hand tightening in my hair, his other arm banding across my back to crush me against him.

He shudders.

Stutters.

And finally, goes still.

We stay like that a long moment, his weight bracketing me, my legs still wrapped around his hips, both of us slick and trembling and breathing like we ran up every one of these stairs.

His heart slams against my chest. Mine answers it. He turns his face into my throat and just breathes me in, as I stroke my fingers up the back of his damp neck. The mirror shows the whole thing, perfectly clear, and for once I don't mind being looked at.

"I love you," I tell his reflection.

"I love you, too,kotyonok," he tells mine.

There's no data point left to check. No receipt left to file. No number to run.

All that's left is this.

All that's left is love.

39