Ivan – POV
"You okay?" he whispers again, voice rough, tinged with something I can't quite place—relief? Wonder? Lust?
This time, I answer.
"Perfect."
His breath catches. "Great."
And then, he moves—with me still in his arms.
The shift of his hips, the low drag of his breath against my neck, the way his fingers flex on my back—all of it makes my body tremble. I can feel him getting harder again, the pressure inside me building with each slow movement.
He carries me across the room like I weigh nothing and throws me gently—playfully, really—onto the bed. My back hits the soft mattress, and I bounce once, disoriented and breathless.
"Yeah," he says darkly, standing at the foot of the bed and staring down at me with a look that turns my bones to jelly,
"I'm not done with you. Every single night I spent with my hand? You're about to take that punishment."
I blink, dazed and already half gone with desire. "Oh."
I can barely breathe.
His hands trail down my sides—slow, reverent, tracing the shape of my ribs, the dip of my waist, as if memorizing me all over again.
His knee parts my legs, slow and possessive, dragging them apart until I'm open to him, completely exposed. I try to push myself up on my elbows, but my arms tremble from earlier and fall back.
His fingers wrap around my ankle and slide up the length of my leg, lingering at my thigh.
"I can't decide what I want to do first," he murmurs, his gaze burning into mine.
"Make you cry again… or make you beg for it."
The air leaves my lungs in a rush. My throat's dry.
"Can't it be both?" I ask, my voice hoarse.
His grin widens—and then he surges forward, kissing me with bruising intensity. His body presses over mine, heavy and hot, and I moan into his mouth as his hand trails down again, finding me half-hard and still aching from before.
"Greedy little thing," he mutters, nipping at my lower lip. "You really want more?"
"Yes," I breathe, shameless.
I don't care how needy I sound. I am.
His hands find my hips and grip tightly. His mouth is at my throat now, hot and insistent. He's marking me again, probably. I'll be covered in evidence of him tomorrow, and I find myself smiling at the thought.
His mouth travels lower—chest, ribs, stomach. I shudder with every press of his lips, the scrape of his teeth. He's slow about it this time, savoring. Like he wants to memorize me.
Like I'm something sacred.
And then he drags his tongue along the sensitive skin of my inner thigh, and I nearly arch off the bed.
"Zander—"
"Patience," he murmurs, voice thick. "You're going to feel me everywhere before I'm through."
I swallow hard, fingers tangling in the sheets.
He rises up, kneeling between my legs, his body golden in the low light. His hands trail down my sides, leaving warmth in their wake.
When he pushes back in, it's not rushed.
It's slow. Deliberate. Deep.
And I gasp, clutching the sheets as his eyes hold mine in a grip stronger than his hands.
His breath shudders out as he leans over me again, one arm wrapping under my shoulder to hold me close. His pace picks up—not frantic, but intense, driven.
I arch into him, every nerve on fire, every cell singing. His other hand grips my waist hard, anchoring me, and I already know I'll see the marks tomorrow.
He meant it when he said punishment. But this is the kind I'll beg for.
His forehead presses against mine, sweat-dampened skin to skin, and his breath mixes with mine. Every sound he makes is a growl, a low groan, a whispered plea or curse into the hollow of my throat.
"God, Ivan…" he pants. "You're—everything."
And I believe him.
I wrap my arms around him, my legs curling tighter around his waist, grounding him to me, or maybe it's the other way around.
His rhythm falters for a moment, then sharpens—driven by something that feels like desperation, reverence, and release all tangled together.
Each thrust lands deeper, more insistent, sending sparks through my spine and across my skin. I can't think. I can't speak. Only feel.
When he leans down to kiss me again, it's messy and searing and perfect.
I don't know how long it lasts. The rise and fall. The rhythm. The rough, grounding pressure of his hands and the way he doesn't let go of me—not once.
When he finally collapses on top of me, breath hot against my neck, the room is quiet except for our heartbeats and the low crackle of the fire. I'm slick with sweat, sore in places I didn't even know could ache, but I feel more grounded than I have in days.
He doesn't move right away. Just buries his face into my shoulder and exhales, like letting go of something heavy.
I curl a hand around the back of his head and run my fingers through his sweat-damp hair. His scent clings to my skin, thick and comforting. And mine clings to him too—we've marked each other without even meaning to.
Eventually, he shifts, lifting himself up just enough to look at me.
"You're okay?" he asks again, but this time it's soft, careful, with a hint of fear behind it. Like he's scared I might say no.
I smile weakly, my voice hoarse. "I'm going to feel this for a week."
He laughs, pressing his forehead to mine. "That's the idea."
I swat at his arm, but I don't really mean it. I'm too tired. Too wrung out.
He slips out of me carefully, and I groan at the emptiness, the dull ache, the sticky mess. I should feel embarrassed. I should feel mortified.
Instead, I just feel… warm.
"I'll clean you up," he says, already reaching for a towel on the nightstand like he planned for this. Which—honestly? Zander probably did. Glad we had the same idea.
"Did you always imagine this?" I ask, watching him through half-lidded eyes.
"Since the day I saw you dancing in that club," he confesses with a smirk.
I hum, eyes drifting shut. "Pervert."
He chuckles and pulls the blanket over us once we're both clean enough not to stick to the sheets. He draws me into his chest, arms wrapped tightly around my waist like I'll disappear if he loosens his grip.