Page 65 of Cruel Submission

His hands come to my hips, but don’t guide. Don’t control. Just hold.

I start to move.

Not gentle. Not slow. I ride him hard, chasing the friction, the fullness, the way he hits something deep inside me that makes my brain misfire. His hips lift to meet my movements, but he lets me set the pace. Lets me take what I need.

“Touch me,” I demand breathlessly.

His thumb finds my clit, circling with devastating precision. The added sensation makes me cry out, makes my rhythm falter.

“That’s it,” he encourages roughly. “Take what you need from me, zaychik. Use me.”

The permission does something to me. I lean forward, bracing my hands on either side of his head, and drive myself down onto him harder. Faster. His other hand slides up to cup my breast, thumb brushing over my nipple.

“Fuck, you’re beautiful like this,” he breathes. “So fucking perfect.”

I don’t respond. Can’t. Just chase the building pressure inside me, grinding down on him, on his clever fingers. The pleasure builds and builds until I’m right on the edge, trembling.

“Come for me, zaychik,” he commands. “Let me feel it.”

The orgasm rips through me, intense and almost painful. I clench around him, crying out, and he follows immediately—hands tightening on my hips as he pulses inside me.

“Oh! Fuck…fuck!” I half yell, shuddering as the waves ripple through me. He’s holding me down now, forcing me to take every drop of his cum. I writhe against him as the shockwaves continue to ripple through me, my inner walls milking him, until his grip finally eases.

I collapse forward onto his chest, both of us breathing hard. His arms come around me automatically, holding me against him while aftershocks ripple through me.

I’ve learned something, I realize. Something about myself that I didn’t know before.

I can meet his intensity. Can match the rawness, the violence, the consuming need. I don’t have to be overwhelmed by him. Don’t have to let him swallow me whole.

I can push back. Can demand. Can take.

The knowledge settles in my bones like truth.

We lie there for long minutes, hearts gradually slowing. His fingers trace patterns on my back that might be letters, might be nothing. I press my ear to his chest, listening to his heartbeat.

Then he speaks.

“I’m sorry.”

He says it again, and the words make me stiffen. I lift my head to look at him.

That expression is back on his face—guilt mixed with pain, like whatever he’s hiding is physically hurting him.

“What are you sorry for?” I ask quietly.

He doesn’t answer. Just looks at me with those haunted eyes.

And suddenly, watching him, it clicks. The doctors. The nurses coming and going at odd hours. The way he disappears without explanation. The guilt.

“Arkady.” I push myself up slightly, searching his face. “Is everything okay? I’ve been seeing doctors and nurses coming in and out of the building. Is there something wrong? Are you—”

His expression shutters immediately. The vulnerability vanishes, replaced by cold fury.

“It’s none of your business.” The words are sharp enough to cut.

I flinch like he’s slapped me. Roll off him, reaching for my dress. My hands shake as I pull it on.

“Right,” I say, voice brittle. “Of course. None of my business. Just like everything else.”