CHAPTER 12

Nikolai looked into her eyes, searching for any sign of hesitation. "Are you sure?" he asked one last time, his voice husky with restraint.

She nodded quickly, her cheeks already flushed. "Yes," she whispered, then bit her lip and added, "Please stop asking… I might get too embarrassed and change my mind."

A flicker of something raw passed through his eyes, and he swallowed hard, as if anchoring himself. Without another word, he reached for her, his hands firm but gentle as he pulled her into his lap. Her breath hitched as she settled against him, the heat between them instantly undeniable.

Their lips met—soft at first, a test, a confirmation—and then it turned hungry. He kissed her like he'd been deprived of her for far too long, like she was oxygen and he'd been suffocating. His hand cupped her cheek, fingers threading through her hair as he deepened the kiss, and she melted against him, her fingers gripping his shoulders as if afraid he might vanish.

His other hand slid down, brushing over her thigh—slow, deliberate strokes that made her shiver. He was exploring, savoring, mapping out every reaction she gave. When his hand dipped lower, his palm skimming over her soft skin, she shifted slightly, unintentionally pressing closer.

His hand moved to her waist, then down to her hips, and then he cupped her ass with both hands, giving a firm, possessive squeeze. She gasped softly, the sound barely audible but sharp enough to stir something primal in him. He growled under his breath, the vibration rumbling through his chest.

"You have no idea what you do to me," he murmured, lips brushing the shell of her ear before trailing down the side of her neck. His mouth was hot and desperate against her skin, each kiss leaving a burning trail. He nipped at the base of her neck, then soothed the bite with his tongue before descending further—past her collarbone, down to the hollow of her throat, tasting every inch of her.

Her breathing was ragged now, her body trembling with anticipation. His hand traveled between her thighs, fingers brushing the edge of her panties. He paused, looking up at her once more.

She met his gaze, her eyes heavy with desire, and she nodded again—more urgently this time.

That was all he needed.

He hooked his fingers under the thin fabric, pulling it aside. The heat of her core hit him, and his hand moved instinctively, seeking out the pulsing warmth between her thighs. When his fingers finally touched her, she let out a soft moan, her body arching slightly in response.

He stilled for a heartbeat, overwhelmed by how soft, how wet she was for him. Then he exhaled shakily, and leaned in to kiss her again—this time slower, deeper, as if trying to anchor them both.

Her legs parted a little more on their own, instinct taking over. His hand moved in slow circles, coaxing more gasps from her lips. She gripped his shoulders, her fingers digging in. Each sound she made, each little movement, fed into his hunger for her.

"You're perfect," he breathed against her lips.

Her breath trembled against his cheek as he explored her slowly, deliberately. His fingers moved with practiced tenderness, drawing soft whimpers from her lips with every stroke. Her hands fisted the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer as if needing him to anchor her, to keep her from unraveling completely.

He watched her reactions, mesmerized. The way her lashes fluttered shut, the way her bottom lip trembled as she tried to hold back the moans rising in her throat—it all fed the fire burning within him. She wasn't just responding to him. She was giving herself to him, piece by piece, and it was undoing him in the most beautiful way.

He leaned in, kissing the edge of her jaw, then her neck again, letting his tongue trace the sensitive skin there. Her hips moved instinctively, chasing his touch. When he pressed the pad of his finger more firmly against the most sensitive part of her, her body jerked lightly, a moan slipping from her lips before she could catch it.

"I love the way you react to me," he murmured against her skin, his voice dark and reverent. "So responsive… so honest."

She opened her eyes to look at him, dazed and overwhelmed, cheeks flushed and chest rising rapidly. "I… I can't think when you touch me like that," she whispered breathlessly.

He smiled, the corner of his mouth lifting in a slow, smug curve. "Good. I don't want you to think. I want you to feel."

With that, he shifted, turning to lay her gently back against the couch cushions. He moved above her, hovering just enough to watch her face as his fingers continued their slow, teasing rhythm. She spread her legs instinctively, needing more, needing him.

"Look at you," he whispered, his voice rough with need. "So beautiful… so mine."

She gasped when he slipped one finger inside her, followed by another, curling just right as his thumb circled her clit. Her back arched, her moans turning louder, more desperate. Her hands clutched at his arms, nails digging into his skin.

"Nikolai—" she cried out, voice cracking with pleasure and vulnerability. "I… I think—"

"I've got you," he murmured. "Let go. Just let go."

And she did.

Her body tensed beneath him, her thighs shaking as wave after wave of pleasure crashed through her. Her cries were raw, unfiltered, and her hands flew to his shoulders, pulling him close as if trying to ground herself in his warmth.

He didn't stop until she was gasping and trembling, her body boneless under him. Only then did he slow his movements, letting her ride the aftershocks in his arms. He kissed her forehead, her cheeks, her nose, murmuring soft things against her skin that made her heart ache with something deeper than lust.

When her breathing finally evened out, she opened her eyes and met his gaze. There was no teasing smirk now. His eyes were dark, intense, but filled with something tender, something real.

"I don't want this to be just tonight," he said quietly. "Not just a moment… not just a need."

She blinked at him, overwhelmed. "It isn't," she said, voice hoarse from moaning. "Not for me."

He leaned in, kissing her again—slow and soft, like a promise. His hands cradled her face, grounding her, holding her with a kind of care that made her chest tighten.

"Good," he whispered against her lips. "Because I'm not letting you go."

Her breathing was still uneven, her body sensitive from the waves of pleasure he had drawn from her moments ago, but when she looked up into his eyes—dark with longing, burning with restrained desire—she knew she wanted more. Needed more.

He hovered over her, breathing heavily, his body tense with control. His hand rested on her hip, his thumb stroking her skin in slow, soothing circles. But his eyes searched her face with quiet intensity, asking a question he didn't voice.

She reached up and touched his jaw, guiding him down to kiss her again. "Don't hold back," she whispered. "I want this… I want you."

A groan slipped from his lips—low, strained, as if he'd been waiting for those words to give himself permission. He kissed her fiercely then, pouring all the hunger, the desperation, and the tenderness he felt into that moment. She responded with equal fervor, her hands exploring the hard lines of his back, pulling at his shirt until he broke away just long enough to tear it off.

His bare skin pressed against hers, warm and solid, and she gasped at the sheer intimacy of it—every inch of him, every muscle, every breath against her chest. Her hands roamed freely now, learning him, committing him to memory.

"You drive me insane," he murmured, lips brushing her jaw as he trailed kisses down her throat. "You make me forget how to breathe."

She giggled softly, breathlessly, but it melted into a moan when he reached behind her and removed her panties completely, tossing them aside. Then his hand slid between her legs again, checking her readiness—gentle, reverent.

"Still okay?" he asked, his voice tight with restraint.

"Yes," she whispered, her legs wrapping around his waist in answer. "Please…"

He nodded once, then reached down to free his already hard cock, the tension in his body coiled tight. When he positioned himself at her entrance, he paused and he reached for the condom on the coffee table. He ripped if open and he put it on.

"This isn't just sex," he said hoarsely. "Not for me."

She cupped his face and nodded. "I know."

And then, slowly, he pushed into her, inch by inch, his breath catching as he sank into her heat. Her nails dug into his back, her legs tightening around him, body arching into his as she adjusted to the fullness of him.

They stayed still for a long moment, just breathing each other in, absorbing the closeness.

"You feel…" he breathed, unable to finish.

She lifted her hips just slightly in response, and he groaned, finally beginning to move. Each thrust was deep and deliberate, his pace steady and careful, as if he wanted to memorize every second, every sound she made. Her moans came in soft waves, mingling with his growls of pleasure as their bodies found a rhythm, moving together like they were made for it.

The world faded around them—there was only the quiet slap of skin, the creak of the couch beneath them, and the sharp, beautiful cries of pleasure that escaped her lips every time he hit just the right spot.

He kissed her through it—her lips, her cheeks, her shoulder—whispering her name like a prayer. She whispered his in return, her hands cradling his face as she drew him deeper.

When the tension inside them both finally reached its breaking point, it was overwhelming. Her entire body clenched around him, her moans turning into cries, and he followed her moments later with a groan torn from deep in his chest, burying himself inside her as release overtook them both.

He collapsed against her, careful not to crush her, breathing hard. She wrapped her arms around him, holding him close as they lay tangled together, skin slick with sweat, hearts pounding in unison.

Neither spoke for a while. There was no need. Everything that needed to be said had already been shown in the way they touched, the way they gave themselves to each other completely.

Finally, he kissed her temple and murmured, "I've never felt anything like that before."

She smiled softly, still breathless. "Me neither."

They stayed like that—wrapped in each other, warm and safe—until sleep slowly crept in, stealing over their tired limbs and sated hearts.

The Sunday morning sun poured gently through the sheer curtains, casting a golden hue over the living room. Elara stirred on the couch, nestled against the warm body beside her. Her eyes fluttered open slowly, the soft hum of the morning seeping into her senses. As she moved slightly, a sharp ache between her thighs made her wince.

"Oh God," she whispered to herself, a flush rising up her neck. Her body was sore, tender in ways she hadn't anticipated, but it wasn't a bad kind of sore. It was the kind that left a reminder—of hands, mouths, gasps in the dark, and the wildness of last night. Her cheeks flamed as she pulled the blanket tighter over herself.

Had she really pulled out a condom like that? Just offered it to him like it was nothing?

She covered her face with her hand, groaning softly, both in embarrassment and disbelief.

Next to her, his breathing was steady and deep. He was still asleep, his arm curled loosely around her waist. Slowly, carefully, she shifted to look at him—his dark hair slightly tousled, the sharp angle of his jaw relaxed in sleep. Her fingers twitched with the urge to touch him. Instead, she settled for a soft trail over his arm, letting her fingertips trace the inked patterns on his skin.

His tattoos.

Last night, her mind had been far too clouded with lust and adrenaline to notice them in detail. But now, in the soft hush of morning, she could see them clearly.

They weren't the kind of tattoos someone got on a whim. These were deliberate. Dark. Intricate. Symbolic.

Her eyes trailed the line of ink that curled around his shoulder, slithered down his arm. She followed it to his chest, then to the side of his ribs where something caught her attention. A pair of serpentine eyes, wild and haunting, peeking out beneath the sheet.

Medusa.

Her breath hitched.

She hesitated, fingers hovering just above the ink. Something about it felt personal. Sacred. She didn't know why, but the image unsettled her a little—not because it was frightening, but because it felt like a keyhole into a part of him she hadn't seen yet. She was about to touch it when he stirred.

His eyes slowly fluttered open.

Caught in the act, Elara looked away quickly, a deep blush creeping across her cheeks. She tucked her hand under the blanket and bit her lip, mortified. After last night, after moaning his name like it was the only word she knew, she suddenly felt… exposed.

"Hey," he murmured, his voice still hoarse from sleep.

She dared to glance at him. He was watching her with a soft, knowing smile.

"How are you feeling?"

She let out a sheepish laugh. "Sore. Like… my vagina just got hit by a train."

He blinked, then burst out laughing. The sound of it warmed her from the inside out.

"A train? Damn. Was I that bad?"

She hid her face in his chest, laughing along with him. "No. Not bad. Just… intense."

"Good. I was worried you'd ask for a refund."

She giggled. Then, after a moment, her eyes lifted to the tattoo again.

"Can I ask you something?"

He nodded. "Anything."

"Your tattoos… I didn't really see them properly last night. They're… different. Meaningful."

He raised a brow, waiting.

"That one," she said softly, reaching out to lightly graze the Medusa tattoo near his ribs. "Why Medusa?"

The change in him was instant. The smile faltered. His gaze shifted from her to the wall across the room.

"You don't have to tell me," she said quickly. "If it's personal."

He looked at her then, really looked. Something passed in his eyes—a storm he quickly swallowed down.

"It is personal," he said quietly. "But not a secret. Just… not a story for this morning."

She nodded, understanding. "Okay."

He reached for her hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. "I'll tell you. Just not now. It's kind of a sad story, and I don't want you to feel sad today."

Elara felt her chest ache a little. The way he spoke, the way he looked at her—it was clear that whatever pain he carried, it was rooted deep.

"Thank you," she said softly.

They lay there in silence for a few minutes, listening to the hum of traffic outside and the occasional chirp of birds. She could've stayed like that forever, warm in his arms, basking in the aftermath of everything that had happened. But eventually, he reached over to grab his phone from the coffee table.

He checked the time and sighed. "Shit. I have to go."

Disappointment tugged at her heart. She tried not to show it, but he caught it anyway.

"Hey," he said, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "I'll call you. Later today."

She nodded. "Okay."

He leaned in, kissed her forehead. "Next time, though… I'm bringing more condoms. One wasn't nearly enough."

Her mouth dropped open in shock, then she burst out laughing, burying her face in his chest.

"You're such an ass."

"An ass you clearly enjoyed."

She groaned. "Stop."

He pulled her in for one last kiss. It was slow and sweet, a promise lingering on his lips.

"And don't forget," he whispered, his voice low and warm. "We have another date this Friday."

"Is that so?"

"Absolutely. I will pick you up at six."

He stood, stretching, and Elara watched as he got dressed. The tattoos disappeared under his shirt, but the image of the Medusa stayed with her. She knew one day, she'd hear the story behind it.

And something told her that when she did, it would change everything.

But for now, she was content with the promise of next Friday—and the lingering ache that reminded her of just how deeply she was beginning to fall for him.