The dried crimson blood on his knuckles was jarring. I inwardly knew it, that it wasn't his blood. Somewhere deep in my blood, I knew I should be afraid of Volkov. I should be afraid of him and what he had done, whatever it was. Yet I couldn't find that fear.
All my focus went to the sensations of Volkov plowing into me. The sound of our skin slapping together and the heat of his body crushing me down. His mouth fell on my shoulder and I felt him biting into my skin. Shivers danced through me with the heady concoction of pleasure. There was something feral in him tonight, a raw, predatory energy that set every nerve on fire.
Volkov thrusted into me so hard, over and over. It felt as if he would split me in half from the force of it. His movement was desperate and wild. One hand curled ov
