Page 137 of Ruthless Addiction

His mouth returned to mine, fierce now, as he lifted me onto the table’s polished surface.

Plates rattled, silverware clinked, but neither of us cared.

I reached for his belt, fumbling in my urgency.

He helped, kicking off trousers and boxers until he stood gloriously bare before me.

His eyes met mine—dark, questioning—as his fingers hooked the clasp of my bra. I nodded, breath hitching.

He unfastened it with practiced ease, letting it fall away before lowering his head.

The first pull of his mouth on my nipple sent lightning through my veins.

He sucked hard, teeth grazing just enough to make me gasp, my back arching off the table.

His free hand slid down my stomach, past the waistband of my panties, fingers brushing through the soft curls before finding slick heat.

My jeans from earlier were gone—this was only lace now—and his touch was unhindered, stroking, circling, teasing until I was writhing.

“Dmitri...” I moaned, head falling back, the sound echoing off the high ceilings. “Don’t stop... please...”

He moved to my other breast, lavishing the same attention, while his fingers finally slipped inside me—slow at first, then deeper, curling just right.

Pleasure coiled tight and hot in my belly, building with every thrust of his hand, every pull of his mouth.

I was lost—utterly, gloriously lost.

My wet dreams in Greece had nothing on this reality.

“I’m removing these,” he growled against my skin, tugging at my panties.

I silenced him with another kiss, desperate and devouring, as I helped shove them down.

In seconds, I was naked beneath him. He set me fully on the table, plates crashing to the floor in a distant clatter.

His erection pressed hot and heavy against my thigh.

He paused, eyes searching mine one last time.

I nodded frantically, wrapping my legs around his waist.

He entered me in one deep thrust.

I cried out—pain and pleasure intertwined—as he filled me completely. “I’ll take it easy, Maliya,” he whispered, voice rough with restraint.

Hearing that old nickname—Maliya, his private endearment from a lifetime ago—shattered something inside me.

He began to move—slow, deliberate strokes that quickly built to something harder, faster.

The table rocked beneath us, cutlery scattering, wine glasses toppling.

I clung to him, nails digging into his shoulders, meeting every thrust with my own.

“Look at me,” he commanded, hand gently collaring my throat—not squeezing, just holding, grounding.

My eyes, which had rolled back in ecstasy, snapped to his. The intensity there undid me.

He slammed deeper, hitting that perfect spot over and over until I was chanting his name like a prayer. Pleasure crested, sharp and overwhelming.