Page 91 of The Russian's Revenge Bride
“Eleanor,” he said, and my name on his lips sounded like a prayer.
“I know,” I whispered. “I know exactly what you are, Maxim Voronov. And I love every fucking piece of it.”
He lifted me into his arms then, carrying me to our bed while whispering promises in Russian against my skin. Words I didn’t understand but felt in my bones. Vows of protection and possession and a love so fierce it could burn down the world.
I believed every word.
As he laid me down on our sheets, his hands mapping my body like he was memorizing every curve, every sensitive spot, every place that made me arch and gasp his name, I thought about the journey that had brought us here.
Eight months ago, I’d been Eleanor Beaumont, unloved daughter of a man who saw me as a burden. A woman who’d built walls around her heart because she’d never known what it felt like to be truly wanted.
Now I was Eleanor Voronov, wife to a man who’d kill armies to keep me safe. A woman who’d found her real father and her true home and a love so consuming it rewrote the very definition of the word.
“Mine,” Maxim growled against my throat, his teeth scraping over the sensitive skin.
“Yours,” I breathed, nails digging into his shoulders. “Always yours.”
We moved together in the darkness, our bodies finding that perfect, punishing rhythm we’d honed over nights like this, the ancient dance of claimed and claimer, of two souls who had fought their way through fire and blood and still, somehow, belonged here, tangled in each other. Every thrust was an unspoken vow, every gasp and groan a language only we spoke.
He kissed me like he needed to mark every part of me—my mouth, my jaw, the hollow beneath my ear. I arched against him, meeting each movement, my hands roaming over the hard planes of his back.
When release tore through me, it was sharp, almost violent, pulling a broken sound from my throat. Maxim followed, his body tensing, his low groan vibrating against my neck as he buried himself deep and stilled.
For a moment, we just lay there, the world narrowed to the heat of our bodies, the ragged sound of our breathing. Sweat cooled slowly on our skin. I traced idle patterns over his chest with one fingertip, my mind floating in that strange, blissful space between exhaustion and peace.
His hand moved in lazy circles down my spine, grounding me. I thought we’d drift into sleep like this, until his palm slid lower, over the curve of my hip, and lingered.
I felt the change in him before he moved, the subtle quickening of his breath, the shift of his body toward mine.
I tilted my head to meet his gaze, and the look in his eyes was molten, dangerous in the way only Maxim could be dangerous.
“Again?” My voice was quiet, but my pulse wasn’t.
“Always,” he said, and the word alone unraveled me.
His mouth claimed mine, slower this time, coaxing, drawing me under with a patience that was somehow more lethal than his earlier urgency. His tongue brushed mine, his hand cupping my thigh and pulling it over his waist until he was pressed against me again.
I gasped at the feel of him, already hard.
He slid into me with a deep, deliberate thrust that made my back arch and my fingers clutch at his shoulders. The sensation was almost too much—my body still sensitive from before, but the pleasure bloomed quickly, rich and all-encompassing.
“Easy,” he murmured, kissing my cheek, my jaw, the corner of my mouth. “I’ve got you.”
And he did. Every movement was slow, measured, as if he wanted to draw out every second, burn it into memory. He filled me completely before retreating, only to return again in a rolling rhythm that kept me teetering between comfort and the edge of something sharper.
My hands wandered over his back, feeling the play of muscle under my palms. I hooked my heel into the small of his back, urging him deeper. He groaned a low, raw sound that went straight through me.
His mouth moved over my skin, down my throat to the rapid pulse there, then lower to my collarbone. When his lips closed over my breast, heat shot through me, my fingers tangling in his hair as his tongue teased and circled.
“You drive me insane,” he said against my skin, voice uneven.
“Yes,” I whispered, smiling through the haze of sensation.
He laughed softly, breathless, before shifting my leg higher, his hand gripping firmly just beneath my knee. The change in angle had me gasping, pleasure spiking hard and fast.His control started to fray; I felt it in the way his hips pressed harder, the rhythm turning more urgent.
The pressure built quickly between us, quicker than the first time, until I was clinging to him, our mouths colliding in a kiss that was all heat and desperation, teeth and tongues tangling like we were trying to consume each other.
When release came again, it ripped through me in a flood of sensation, my cry muffled against his lips. He kept moving, chasing his own climax until he buried himself deep and followed me over, his body shuddering against mine.