Page 47 of Prince of Control

“Take it, malysh. Take it like a good girl,” he commands.

He knows it’s getting challenging for me. The pace, the intensity of his thrusts.

“Please,” I beg.

“You don’t come until I come.” His voice is stern. Forbidding.

It makes wings flap with excitement in my tummy.

“Please,” I repeat.

My begging seems to undo Baron. A muscle jumps in his cheek. He slams into me harder and harder, driving me upward with the force of his thrusts.

“Fuck,” he mutters. And then he unleashes a torrent of praise and dirty talk. Like now that he’s close to coming, he can’t hold it back. “Fuck you’re beautiful. You feel so good. So tight and wet and perfect. Are you gonna be my good girl, Lara?”

“Please,” is the only syllable that will come out of my mouth.

Baron roars and slams in deep. “Come, baby. Come for me now.” He licks the pad of his thumb and brings it between our bodies, rubbing my clit.

I go off like a geyser. My muscles spasm around the thick girth of his dick, milking it for every last drop of his cum. I cry out, still squeezing. My pelvis lifts. My feet stomp into the covers. My inner thighs tremor and quake.

“That’s it, baby.” Baron eases out when the last of my tremors goes quiet. “You’re so perfect.”

He flings the blankets back for us and settles behind me, wrapping one strong arm around my waist to pull me snugly against him. His big spoon into my little one. He kisses my head.

“You’re perfect,” he murmurs again against my hair.

My eyes drift closed. I’ve never felt so satiated in my entire life. And it’s with the man I’ve sworn to hate.

Maybe my mom was right. Maybe good chemistry can really overcome a mountain of conflict.

The intimate connection forged through mind blowing sex becomes a bond. We haven’t worked out a single difference, and yet I feel safe. Held. Loved, even.

But that’s probably just the endorphins talking.

Chapter Thirteen

Lara

When I wake, Baron is gone. I remember him jerking awake in the night the way he does. I’d reached out and touched his chest, and he mumbled an apology. “The nightmares get to me sometimes.”

It dented the privileged bratva prince image I’d assigned him. Something has caused him trauma. The same thing that makes his eyes look haunted at times, I imagine.

I sit up to the sound of my alarm going off beside the bed. Baron must’ve gotten up and plugged my phone in sometime during the night.

He also left a cup of coffee beside the bed in one of those thermal cups that stay warm or cold for hours. I take a sip, and the creamy goodness hits me like a drug. It’s still hot. The milk tastes freshly steamed.

I groan in pleasure.

I remember moments in the night with Baron. His strong arms around me. Our legs tangling. My head on his shoulder.

It’s like my body needed the close physical contact–craved it–to make up for all fucked-upness of this situation. I drank in comfort through my skin and must have lowered my cortisol levels because I slept like the dead.

I swing my legs out of bed and head for the bathroom. I guess you could say our marriage was consummated. I’m definitely sore between my legs and even inside–like my cervix took a beating.

But it was incredible.

I turn around and look in the mirror to see if he left handprints on my ass. No, it all faded. I find myself strangely disappointed, like I wanted to see proof of what he did to me. My belly flutters when I remember the things he said.