Page 21 of Cruel Submission

“Okay?” he asks.

“Perfect.” I wrap my legs around his hips, pulling him deeper. “Move.”

“Bossy.” But there’s affection in his tone as he starts to move.

The rhythm he sets is neither gentle nor brutal—it’s something in between. Claiming without cruelty. Possessive without domination. Each thrust drives him deeper, hitting something inside me that makes my eyes roll back with pleasure.

The Persian rug shifts beneath us with each movement, the silk threads whispering against my overheated skin. Somewhere in the house, a clock chimes the hour. The mundane sound contrasts sharply with what we’re doing, making it more visceral, more real.

“Look at me,” Arkady demands.

I force my eyes open. His face is inches from mine, jaw tight, eyes burning into me with an intensity that should terrify me. Instead, it makes me clench around him.

“Hey,” he says softly. “Stay with me, zaychik.”

“I’m here.” I cup his face with both hands. “I’m right here.” I don’t know why he needs me to keep saying it, but for some reason, I want to. Because I’m here, not being dragged off into a world I would never return from.

He kisses me then, deep and slow, tongue mimicking the rhythm of his hips. The dual sensation is overwhelming. I feel him everywhere—inside me, on top of me, surrounding me completely.

When he shifts the angle, hitting that spot that makes me see dancing lights, I cry out against his mouth.

“That’s it.” He does it again, and again, each thrust more deliberate than the last. “Give it to me.”

“Arkady—”

“Give it to me, Mirabel. Let me feel you come.”

The command pushes me over the edge. My orgasm crashes through me like a tsunami, stealing my breath and whiting out everything else. I feel myself clenching around him, feel him groan against my neck as I pulse and contract.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “Fuck, you’re perfect.”

His rhythm stutters, becoming less controlled, more desperate. A few more thrusts and he’s coming too, emptying himself inside me with a low sound that’s half curse, half my name.

We stay locked together for long moments afterward, both of us trembling and spent. His weight pins me to the rug, grounding me in a way nothing else has since the kidnapping. I run my fingers through his hair, feeling the rapid beat of his pulse against my own.

Eventually, he rolls to the side, taking me with him so we’re face to face on the Persian rug. His arm stays locked around my waist like he still can’t quite believe I’m real.

“Hi,” I say stupidly.

The corner of his mouth lifts. “Hi.”

We lie there in the quiet of the library, and for the first time since I was grabbed, I feel safe.

But safety comes with a price—the weight of what I haven’t told him.

“Arkady,” I start, my voice quiet.

“Mm?” His eyes are closed, one hand tracing lazy patterns on my hip.

“There’s something I need to tell you.”

His eyes open immediately, sharp and alert despite what we just did. “What is it?”

I take a breath, steadying myself. This is it. The moment I admit what happened, what I know, what I’m still trying to understand.

“Today, when I was leaving my father’s house—” I begin.

His phone rings.