Chapter 212

[ 983 words ]

Katia’s POV

It was slow lovemaking. He didn’t fuck me with the wild, angry speed of last night. This was like a marking. He pulled nearly all the way out, until only the head of his cock was teasing my entrance, and then he slowly slid back in, letting me feel every single vein and ridge of his shaft dragging against my sensitive walls.

I moaned, my head thrashing against the pillow as he repeated the motion. The slow friction was a different kind of torture. It allowed me to feel the exact dimension of him, the sheer weight of what he was doing to me. Every time he buried himself deep, my pussy clenched around him in tight, involuntary spasms, trying to hold him inside.

Julian reached down, his hands gripping my waist with a firm, bruising hold. He pinned my hips to the mattress, controlling the angle of every slow, heavy thrust. He kept the pace steady, refusing to let the building heat speed him up. He wanted to savor every slide, wanted me to feel every inch of his claim.

“You’re so tight,” he hissed against my ear, his chest slick with sweat as he pushed deep inside me again. “So fucking wet for me, Kitten p>

“Please, Julian,” I sobbed, my hips tilting up to meet him, trying to force a faster pace. I wanted the hard, fast pounding to drown out the sheer, overwhelming intimacy of the way he was looking at me.

“No,” he whispered, his mouth finding the sensitive spot right below my ear and biting down gently. “Slow. I want you to feel every bit of this; you are mine p>

He continued the slow, deep strokes. I was completely undone under him. My hands moved down his back, my fingers tracing the hard line of his spine before wrapping around his glutes, trying to pull him even deeper. Every thrust made my thighs shake. The friction of his thick cock sliding through my heavy wetness was creating a burning, tight sensation that was rapidly centering in my clit.

He reached up, his hand sliding over my stomach to find my breast. He gripped it, his thumb flicking my nipple until it was a hard, sensitive peak, before he leaned down and took it into his mouth. He sucked me deep, his tongue swirling around the nipple in a wet, heavy rhythm that matched the slow, agonizing slide of his cock inside my pussy.

The dual sensation was too much. I saw stars behind my eyelids. My vision blurred as the internal pressure reached a breaking point. My pussy began to clench and unclench around his shaft, the tight muscles pulsing in a series of desperate, rhythmic spasms.

“Julian… I’m going to cum,” I cried out, my nails scratching into his shoulders.

“Do it,” he growled, his thrusts becoming slightly heavier, deeper, but still maddeningly slow. “Cum on my dick, Katia. Let me feel it p>

I broke. My head fell back, my mouth opening in a silent scream as my climax hit me in a wave of violent, pulsing contractions. My internal walls locked around his cock, squeezing him with an agonizing tightness that had him groaning aloud. I shook uncontrollably under him, my thighs trembling against his hips as the release tore through me.

The tightness of my climax was the breaking point for him. Julian let out a raw, guttural growl deep in his chest. His movements finally lost their calculated restraint. He gave three massive, deep thrusts, his hips slamming against mine with a wet, heavy sound, and then he buried himself as deep as he could go.

I felt the sudden, hot spurt of his release filling me. He throbbed inside me over and over, spilling his hot, thick seed deep into my core as he came with a force that had his entire body shaking. He collapsed against me, his chest heaving, his face buried in the crook of my neck as our heavy, synchronized breathing filled the quiet room.

We stayed like that for a long time, the hot fluid dripping between my thighs onto the sheets. He didn’t pull out. He stayed heavy and deep inside me, keeping me pinned under his body, letting me feel the fading pulse of his cock inside my wet pussy.

The silence of the penthouse returned, but the shift was permanent. I looked at the dark ceiling, my fingers still tangled in his hair, knowing that the wall I had built between us had just been completely dismantled.

I smelled it before I was fully awake.

Coffee. Something warm and savory underneath it. The particular smell of a kitchen being used by someone who knew what they were doing.

I opened my eyes.

Julian’s side of the bed was empty. The sheets were still warm. I lay there for a moment listening to the sounds coming from my kitchen—the particular domesticity of it, the quiet efficiency of someone moving around a space they had decided was theirs.

I got up.

He was at my stove. Still in the clothes he had slept in—or rather had not slept in, given that sleep had not been the primary activity—he was cooking with the same focused, unhurried attention he brought to everything. Eggs. Something in the pan that smelled extraordinary. Toast already done and waiting.

I stood in the doorway and looked at him.

Julian Windsor. In my kitchen. Making breakfast.

I did not know he could cook.

I had known him for over a year. I had been in boardrooms with him and deserts with him and server rooms at two in the morning, and I had never once considered that this man might be standing at a stove somewhere making eggs.

He looked up. He saw me in the doorway. He said nothing. He turned back to the pan.

I sat at the kitchen table.

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