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His cock fills me so perfectly, I wonder how I ever survived my whole life without it.

He pulls back and thrusts again, slower this time, giving my body a chance to adjust. I feel myself opening around him, the burn easing into something else, something hot and desperate and consuming.

“More,” I whisper, and something in his eyes changes.

He stops holding back.

His hips snap forward, driving into me with a force that pushes me up the mattress. I grab the sheets above my head, twisting them in my fists as he sets a rhythm that’s relentless, punishing, almost angry. Each thrust hits deep, deeper than I thought possible, and I can feel every inch of him, thick and hard and filling me completely.

“You scared me tonight.” The words come out between thrusts, rough and broken. “When I saw those cars. When I couldn’t get to you.”

“I’m here,” I manage, but he shakes his head.

“You could have been killed.” He drives into me harder, and I cry out, my back arching off the bed. “Do you understand that? You could have been taken from me.”

His hand slides down my body, between us, and his thumb finds my clit. He circles it once, twice, and I shatter.

The orgasm hits me without warning, ripping through me in waves that make my whole body shake. I clench around him, and he groans—a low, guttural sound that vibrates through my chest—and keeps moving, drawing out my pleasure until I’m whimpering, oversensitive, begging him to stop and not stop at the same time.

He doesn’t stop.

He flips me over, pulling my hips up so I’m on my knees, my face pressed into the pillow. His hand presses between my shoulder blades, holding me down, and then he’s inside me again, the angle different now, deeper, hitting something that makes me see stars.

“Maxim—” His name comes out as a sob.

“Say it again.”

“Maxim. Please.”

He fucks me like he’s trying to claim me, like he’s trying to mark me from the inside out. His hands grip my hips hard enough to bruise, and I know I’ll see the marks tomorrow.

I feel another orgasm building, pressure coiling low in my belly. I reach down to touch myself, but he bats my hand away and replaces it with his own, his fingers working my clit in tight circles that make my thighs shake.

“Come for me,” he says, his voice rough against my ear. “Come on my cock. Let me feel you.”

I do. I come so hard my vision goes white, my body clenching around him in spasms that seem to go on forever. He follows me over the edge with a groan, burying himself deep and holding still as he pulses inside me, filling me with heat.

We collapse together, a tangle of limbs and sweat and heavy breathing. His arm wraps around my waist, pulling me against his chest, and I can feel his heart pounding against my back.

Neither of us speaks. There’s nothing to say.

***

I wake up alone.

The sun is streaming through the windows, and the space beside me is cold. Maxim is gone—probably has been for hours—and I’m lying in his bed wearing nothing but the sheet.

I sit up slowly, wincing at the soreness between my legs. My thighs are marked with bruises from his grip, and when I touch my neck, I can feel the tender spots where his mouth was. Last night comes back in fragments: the chase, the attack, the way he shielded me with his body. Then later, when we made love.

I need to get out of here.

I find a robe draped over a chair and slip it on, then pad barefoot toward the door. The mansion is quiet at this hour, the staff busy with their duties, the guards posted at their stations. I move through the halls without purpose, trying to clear my head.

That’s when I see it. There’s a door at the end of the hall that’s usually locked, but now it’s standing slightly ajar. I’ve passed it a dozen times during my walks, never giving it much thought. Today, something makes me stop.

I push the door open and step inside.

It’s an office. Maxim’s office, I realize after a moment, the one he uses for private matters, separate from the study where we had our confrontation. It’s neat, organized, everything in its place.