“Oh shit,” he mutters. “Charlie—” He opens his eyes, and our gazes tangle together, our breaths coming faster and faster. He doesn’t finish what he was going to say, and I’d never be able to answer, because he withdraws his cock nearly all the way before shoving straight back in. I arch and give a choked scream.

“Alright?” he gasps.

“God yes, don’t stop,” I pant, fisting my hands in the sheets and undulating into his rhythm as he begins to thrust hard and deep. He changes the angle with an expert twist of his hips and grazes my prostate. My shout is loud in the quiet bedroom, and he grunts, falling forward to lie between my legs, arms braced against the sheets. I wind my legs around his waist, and he kisses me, separating only to gulp in air.

“Oh god, it’s so fucking good,” he says through gritted teeth, and he buries his face in my shoulder, panting.

I sink my hands into his thick, wavy hair, the strands spilling like silk over my fingers. All the while, his battering thrusts continue to send hot pleasure through me.

I feel the tell-tale tingle as my balls draw up. “Misha, I’m going to come,” I say hoarsely.

He slings his hips faster, his eyes pinned between my legs where my hand is working my cock.

“Do it, Charlie,” he whispers.

Then, my body obeying his command, I shout as hot cream pulses over my hands, splattering my chest and neck. His nostrils flare as the scent fills the air, and then he arches, thrusting his hips and grunting low and sexily as he pushes one, two, three more times. Heat surges inside me, and he gives a long choked groan before he collapses.

I instantly wrap my arms around him, inhaling the scent of bergamot and sweat and come and feeling the tenderness in my arse. He kisses my neck, his breathing fast and heavy, and I smell the faint tang of whisky on his breath. He pulls out gently and falls to the side before nestling closer to me. His body gets heavier as sleep abruptly claims him. A chuckle escapes me as I lean in and remove the condom, tying it and throwing it in the bin near the bed. He doesn’t even stir at my touch.

I cuddle close and kiss his hair tenderly, running my hands down his muscled back. And then, as if they were inevitable, worries circle in my brain. I can still smell the whisky on his breath. How drunk was he? I didn’t see him have that much to drink, but I haven’t been with him all night. I’m sober and went into this clear-headed, albeit on a massive tide of lust. But what if Misha has done this on a pissed-up impulse? What if he wakes up tomorrow morning and blames me for not stopping us? What if he regrets everything?