Page 46 of The Pakhan's Kidnapped Bride

“Are you going to come again, kitten?” I ask, pushing deep into her and grinding against her.

“I am,” she gasps.

“I can feel it. I can feel how your pussy is shuddering around me.”

She leans harder into me, and I growl with pleasure.

I can’t hold back much longer.

I slide out and thrust into her harder than before, then even harder, fucking her faster and deeper. She screams as the second orgasm hits her, her pussy tightening over my cock. I explode inside her at the same time, our pleasure intertwined, our hearts beating fast.

For a moment, neither of us moves.

I’m overwhelmed by how incredible it was. Remembering now, understanding exactly what it is like to be with her. How perfect we are together.

My cock is still hard inside her. She shifts, sitting up on the counter, and I slowly slide out. She wiggles backwards, her feet dropping to the ground, her dress shifting up over her body, and my eyes roam freely over those beautiful lines that make up her figure.

I could fuck her again, right now.

Anya turns to face me, and her cheeks are bright pink. She looks embarrassed as she tries to straighten her dress and step away from me.

Fuck.

My heart sinks.

She already regrets what happened.

“Um, I, um, I’m just going to freshen up,” she mutters, not looking at me, biting her lip. Her eyes are darting all over the place, everywhere but at me.

“I was going to make you some food,” I say, wondering if I’m reading this wrong. Did she not enjoy it? Bullshit. I know she enjoyed it. It’s the aftermath she doesn’t seem so happy about.

“I don’t think I’m hungry anymore,” she says quietly. “I’ll make something later.”

“A coffee, maybe?” I ask, not wanting her to leave like this. At least trying to make this less awkward.

“No, nothing, thanks,” she says.

Anya turns away from me and hurries out of the kitchen.

I stand alone, pulling my pants closed, buttoning up, straightening my shirt, wondering what the fuck just happened.

A spike of anger shoots through me.

Except I know it’s not anger at all.

It’s rejection.The same rejection I felt all those years ago.

A deep, shattering pain that screamsyou’re not good enough for her. She never wanted you in the first place. She never loved you, and she will never love you. You’re worthless to her.

I grit my teeth, trying to push the pain away, trying to shove the familiar ache back into the pit of my thoughts where it belongs, trying to numb myself like I have done over and over again in the past five years.

It’s not working.

This pain is too new, too fresh. The pleasure was too intense.

Lashing out, I pick up a coffee mug and fling it across the kitchen. It shatters against the wall. Broken shards explode in all directions.

I pick up another thing, anything, whatever is closest. I throw the jar of coffee grounds as well. It shatters, and coffee and glass splinter across the floor.