Chapter 2: Wall-Pinned Anal Awakening
The screen door slammed shut behind them, a sharp crack that echoed in the sudden dimness. The air in the house was cooler, thick with the smell of the abandoned lunch—garlic and olive oil from the pasta they’d left on the counter. Dimitri didn’t break stride. He carried her through the living room, her legs locked around his waist, his hands gripping the backs of her thighs. Her robe was open, flapping behind her like broken wings.
“The wall,” he grunted, his voice rough against her ear.
He pressed her back against the cool, textured plaster of the bedroom hallway. The shock of the cold surface on her sun-warmed skin made her gasp. He buried his face in her neck, his teeth finding the sensitive cord of muscle there. It wasn’t a love bite; it was a claim, a sharp, grounding pain.
His free hand slid down, over the curve of her ass, his fingers digging into her flesh. Then his thumb was there, pressing, circling that other, tighter entrance. She flinched, a jolt of pure, unexpected sensation shooting through her.
“You wanted this,” he breathed into her skin, his voice low and relentless. “Out there on the lounger, when you pushed back against me. You were offering this. Weren’t you?”
He didn’t wait for an answer. His thumb pressed harder, a insistent, promising pressure. Then it was gone, replaced by the wet, slick sound of him spitting into his palm. The crude, practical sound was more intimate than any kiss.
“Dimitri,” she whispered, her voice tight.
His fingers, now slick and cool, returned. One pressed against her, not entering, just testing, making her aware of every nerve ending. “You wanted me to wreck this tight hole next, didn’t you?” he snarled, his voice a dark thread in the shadowy hallway. His other hand spread her cheek, exposing her completely.
The blunt tip of his finger pressed inward. It was a slow, burning stretch, a fullness so different from what she was used to. She cried out, her head thumping back against the wall. Her fingers clawed at his shoulders.
“Breathe, Anya,” he commanded, his voice softening just a fraction. He stilled, letting her adjust to the impossible sensation of being opened in this new, forbidden way. “Just breathe through it.”
She dragged air into her lungs, the initial shock receding, replaced by a deep, throbbing ache that was already beginning to twist into pleasure. He began to move his finger, a shallow, probing rhythm that made her see stars behind her eyelids. It was overwhelming. It was everything.
He added a second finger, and the world dissolved into a white-hot point of sensation. There was only the stretch, the burn, the feeling of being utterly possessed. Her sounds were no longer words, just ragged, pleading gasps.
He watched her face, his eyes dark pools of concentration. “That’s it,” he murmured. “Take it. You can take more than you think.”
He crooked his fingers inside her, and a jolt of pure, undiluted pleasure seared through her, so sharp it was almost pain. She came apart against the wall, her body convulsing around his invading fingers, a silent, shattered scream on her lips.
He held her through it, his body pinning her to the wall as she shuddered. When the last tremor passed, he slowly, carefully withdrew his fingers. She sagged against him, boneless, her forehead resting on his shoulder.
He swept her up into his arms again, carrying her the final few steps into the bedroom. The curtains billowed, letting in slices of late afternoon sun that danced across the rumpled sheets. He laid her down gently, the cotton cool against her heated skin.
He stood over her, looking down at her wrecked, sated form. A slow, possessive smile spread across his face. “Now,” he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Now we start.”
He didn’t join her on the bed immediately. He just watched her, his eyes tracing the lines of her body, the sheen of sweat on her skin glowing in the slatted light. “You’re still so wet from before,” he murmured, more to himself than to her. “From the lounger. From the wall.”
Then he was on the bed, crawling between her legs with a predator’s grace. He hooked her knees over his shoulders, the position exposing her utterly. He didn’t kiss her. He just looked, his gaze so intense it felt like a physical touch. “I want to taste all of you.”
His mouth descended on her, but this wasn’t gentle. His tongue drove into her, a flat, demanding pressure that mimicked a deeper possession. He wasn’t just tasting; he was claiming, lapping up the evidence of their earlier passion and his recent invasion. The rough texture of his tongue was a delicious friction against her oversensitive flesh.
She arched off the bed, a broken sound escaping her throat. Her fingers twisted in the sheets. “God, Dimitri.”
He ignored her, his focus absolute. He tongue-fucked her with a relentless rhythm, his hands pinning her hips to the mattress. The wet, obscene sounds filled the room, mingling with her ragged pleas. He was pushing her back toward the edge, so soon after the last shattering climax against the wall.
Just as she felt the familiar coil tighten to breaking point, he pulled away. She groaned in frustration, her body trembling with denied release. He shifted above her, his weight settling between her thighs. The broad, slick head of his cock pressed against her, not where she was wet and open, but lower, against that tighter, still-throbbing ring of muscle.
“This is what you really wanted,” he breathed, his voice thick with need. He wasn’t asking.
He pushed.
The initial breach was a white-hot spike of pure sensation. It wasn’t pain, not exactly, but an overwhelming fullness that stole her breath. She gasped, her eyes wide, locked on his. He held himself there, letting her body struggle to accommodate him. “Breathe, baby. Just breathe.”
She dragged air into her lungs, and on the exhale, he sank deeper. It was a slow, inexorable slide, a burning stretch that felt like it would split her in two. Her nails dug into his biceps. He filled her completely, a possession more total than any that had come before. There was no part of her he hadn’t claimed.
He began to move. The pace was brutal, each thrust a jolt that shook the bedframe. There was no finesse, only a raw, driving need. He watched her face, his own a mask of concentrated pleasure. “So tight,” he grunted, his hips pistoning. “Taking me so deep.”
She was lost in it, the friction building into a strange, devastating pleasure. The memory of his tongue on her, his fingers in her, all culminated in this single, piercing point of connection. She came again, a silent, seizing climax that clamped down around him, her body milking his.
He swore, a guttural, shattered word. His rhythm broke, his thrusts becoming frantic, shallow. He drove into her one last, final time and held, his body rigid. She felt the hot, pulsing release deep inside her, a flood that seemed to have no end.
He collapsed onto her, his weight a welcome anchor. His breath was hot and ragged against her neck. For a long time, there was only the sound of their breathing and the whisper of the curtains. He was still inside her, both of them slick and joined. He nuzzled her throat, a slow, drowsy movement. “Okay?” he mumbled, his voice rough.
She just nodded, her fingers tracing the sweat-slick line of his spine. She had no other words. The sun was lower now, painting the room in long, deep shadows. The world outside the window felt a thousand miles away.