“It’s alright,” he snaps, but irritation taints his voice like clouds obscuring a dazzling sun. Sudden and alarming.
“Sorry,” I murmur, peeking up at him. “I just really want to see your—” I have to physically bite back the word “manhood”—my mother’s term drilled into me since childhood. This moment calls for something dirtier. “Cock,” I say instead, loving how filthy it sounds. “I really want to see your cock.”
His expression shifts, neutral once again. I probably caught him off guard by how sloppy I am, and I make a concerted effort to gently brush the fastenings of his pants.
“Can I?”
“You may,” he says, playful instead of serious.
I bite my lip as I work at a delicate silver clasp. With some finagling, I get it open and tug the waistband down his hips. Solidly cut muscle greets me, and I suck in a breath. He is built—as if chiseled from stone. I could cut myself on the ridges of his hips and defined thighs. But again, something detracts from the otherwise perfection.
“Are you hurt?” I ask, fingering a small, white patch placed on his abdomen, right over his hip. A thin, clear tube snakes from it, apparently connected to a rectangular device, roughly the size of a deck of cards that he withdraws from his pocket.
“Oh,” I say, recognizing the device for what it is—an insulin pump. “You have diabetes?”
One of the little girls at my church had a pump, though far less high-tech than his seems to be. As I watch, he removes the patch, taking out the cannula as well. A frown tugs on his mouth as he turns and sets the device on an end table. Annoyance?
“Cold feet?” he wonders as I hesitate.
I blink, and my brain switches instantly back to sex. “I’m anything but cold,” I murmur, returning my eyes to the prize—a pair of black boxers is the only remaining thing shielding him from me now. “No… I just want to savor this moment for a sec.”
Impulsively reckless or otherwise, this is it—my moment. My first time ever sticking to a plan—no matter how outlandish—and seeing it through simply because I wanted to.
It feels damn good. Too good.
Everything is falling into place so perfectly. Usually, that only heralds bad news. Either I passed out in the lounge, and this is all a vivid hallucination, or something bad is on the horizon to dampen this moment. Either way…
I don’t want to turn back.
Vadim stands utterly still as I work my fingers beneath the waistband of his boxers and tug. The moment I see all of him in full, stark glory, disappointment crashes through me so painfully I groan out loud.
This definitely is a dream.
“Something wrong?” he wonders, still so damn unaffected. Amused, even. “I must admit I’m rarely met with this reaction by the opposite sex. Though sometimes shock is expected.”
“I’m sorry,” I say earnestly. “I… I’ve just never seen a beautiful cock before.”
And I’ve seen a lot of them. In porn, obviously, but still. Those enormous, suspiciously always erect penises were at the high end of my wildest expectations for what endowments I might discover along my new sexual adventure. But for the most part, I’ve kept my hopes grounded at least in the “better than Jim” range. Not too stubby, not too short, and way more willing to be placed in my mouth.
Vadim takes those mild expectations and crushes them.
“Beautiful?” Something in his tone makes me glance away with difficulty from his hips to his face. A fleeting expression shapes his features, resembling anger more than appreciation. He purses his lips a heartbeat later as if to disguise the reaction. “I’d love for you to explain, pretty girl.”
My brain spins at the heated way he says that nickname. His voice drops to a lower octave, enhancing the mysterious notes of his accent. It. Is. Beyond. Sexy.
My eyelids flutter as I settle onto my knees and approach him with a single outstretched finger. When he doesn’t recoil, I brush the uppermost edge of the thatch of dark curls shielding the main prize like some glorious curtain.
“It’s so long,” I say huskily, surprised that my voice actually sounds sexy this time. Not faked. “And…perfect,” I add, inching a fraction lower. “And pierced.”
A metal barbell goes right through the crown, topped on either end by a round bead just large enough to seem more tempting than intimidating. It’s so deliciously sinful. So kinky.
I almost can’t handle it.
“A modified Prince Albert,” he explains in response to my unanswered question. “And no, it won’t hurt you. That seems to be commonly asked in this situation.”
By pansy fools, I decide. My only driving thought is curiosity as to how he’ll feel inside me. “I’ve thought about getting pierced before,” I tell him absently—a secret I’ve never spilled to anyone. Ever. “It’s so pretty.”
This is the extent of my vocabulary at this moment. Because all I really want to do is taste him. Part my lips around him. See how deep down I can let him go. Things I have never thought about a bodily appendage before—not even Jim’s.
My eyelids get heavy, and I lick my lower lip, mulling over an angle of attack.
“I wonder what you taste like,” I whisper, and I swear I see him jerk, a web of veins becoming more pronounced throughout his length. The reaction sends up a ping of alarm—does he not want me to suck him off?
“Up.” He crooks a finger beneath my nose, startling me with the authority in his voice. My gaze darts to him, and I nearly sigh in relief when I catch that slow, lazy grin shaping his mouth. Not anger this time. “I’ve shown you mine,” he explains. “Now you show me yours.”
“Oh!” My brain switches gears, happily turning to something that might excite me almost as much as fellating him. Exhibiting myself for him. I lurch to my feet so quickly that I trip, and he has to grip my waist to steady me.
“Easy does it.” His voice… It’s so pretty when heard up close. His baritone inspires shivers that dance down my spine and shimmy in my belly. So very nice. I lean against him, straining on tiptoe to bring my nose near the crook of his shoulder. He stiffens again, but lets me inhale a whiff of him.
And it’s like someone lights a match right between my legs. A noise rips from me I’ve never heard myself make before, and I wiggle free from him just enough to tug at the skirt of my dress.
“Allow me.” He spins me around and finds the zipper nestled within my freshly blown-out hair. One tug and the fabric gives enough for me to scramble from it. I barely get my arm free of a single spaghetti-strap sleeve when a sudden tension on my hair makes me stiffen, my lips parting, spine arched. He’s grabbed a handful, it seems, using his grasp to control my movements.
Like some sexy sort of leash.
“Stop,” he commands in a voice so rasping my bones quiver as if made of jelly. “Allow me.”
With effort, I force my hands to my side, painfully aware of his presence. My lungs ache, infected by his heady scent. His fingers are so, so soft, tracing a path from my shoulder, down the center of my back to find the zipper again.
“You have beautiful skin,” he praises, sounding surprised by the fact. But his fingers brush a raised scar along my lower back, and I’m the one cringing from him this time.