“Beautiful? I’ve just had amazing surgeons,” I insist. “It’s from a boating accident and was nowhere near as painful as it looks.”
But that’s a dangerous topic, far too serious for my brain to comprehend.
“I have even better tits,” I tell him, jutting my chest. “Not surgically enhanced, mind you.”
He chuckles, and I relax into him again. Taking the hint, he slips his fingers beneath the fabric of my dress, discovering the secret that I’m not wearing a bra underneath. Or underwear.
A devious idea sneaks into my brain, and I’m too reckless to resist. As my dress falls low enough to expose the top of my butt, I inch into him just a fraction. Enough to catch his startled grunt.
“Again, I’m waffling on whether or not you truly are an escort,” he grates. Gosh, I love the sound of his voice. It’s like music. Sexy, disorienting music so unique it transcends any genre. “It seems you’ve come more than prepared.”
“I’m just super horny,” I confess, my breaths quickening. Something about him inspires honesty from me I’d never explore around anyone else. “Super super horny.”
The sexy voice is back, practically vibrating from my throat. His slow-moving fingers finally reach my belly, and I can no longer be patient.
“I’d love for you to touch me,” I whisper, grinding on him more. The pathetic amount of friction is like gasoline to my sex-starved brain. I want more. More more more.
“And yet another strike in the ‘not an escort’ column,” he muses. “You, pretty girl, are far too disobedient.”
“Disobedient.” I toy with the word between my tongue and giggle at how silly it sounds—considering that the opposite term had been my sole defining attribute for the better part of the past decade. The good obedient housewife. Good, obedient Tiffy. Subservient, oh so likable and so depressed, she contemplated suicide at least once per week—screw obedience.
“I’ve upset you.” Vadim snatches on my hips, turning me to face him. His dark eyes skim over me, but a part of me buzzes faintly in alarm. His expression doesn’t match the concern in his voice one damn bit. He looks too…excited. Like discovering my ticks is a fun, thrilling game.
So I rake my fingers down the front of his chest and lower my gaze to his cock. It’s slightly more erect, thicker than before, those veins even more pronounced. He’s aroused by this. Giddy triumph surges straight to my brain. I’d clap my hands if they weren’t too busy relishing the feel of him. So sturdy. So very solid.
“I want you to finger me, please,” I tell him, barely able to keep my eyes open. “Pretty please. I’ve been dying for it.”
Another low, amused chuckle. I’m entertaining him. But a part of me loves the thrill of being on display—no cares given.
“Touch me,” I beg, taking it a step further. “I bet your fingers feel amazing.”
“Show me how, pretty girl.” He shoves me back, and I have no chance in hell of preventing the fall. Luckily, I land on something soft that conforms to my shape—a leather couch. With enviable grace, Vadim steps forward, forcing my legs to part to give him room. With him looming above me, I feel smaller than ever. Something delicate at his mercy. Or disposal.
“Show me,” he repeats, grabbing my wrist.
I gasp as he guides my hand between my legs and my thighs part on command. Years of both secret and more recently, regular masturbation have made me an expert at it. With the right mood and setting, I can get myself off in no time flat. In some ways, it’s become a chore. Flick, flick. Twist, twist. Boom, there goes Tiffy.
But this…
Having a beautiful man’s dark, beautiful eyes track my every move is an experience unto itself. Already soaked, my folds part easily with one brush of my forefinger. But the sensation—it’s lightning. My head rears back as my teeth skewer my lower lip, trapping a moan inside.
A new record. No amount of porno or dirty reading material has ever gotten me this close, this fast. My fingers still, and I’m almost terrified to move. How pathetic would it be to get myself off so quickly?
But if anything, Vadim doesn’t look disappointed. His eyes gleam as I part my legs and risk slipping one finger inside me. My body convulses as nerves explode despite my attempts to stave off the pleasure. But I fight the spasms just to watch him.
Holy hell. No man should be able to look like this. Aloof, and yet at the same time ravenous. Like a vulture who knows that the antelope writhing in agony before him is almost ready to feast upon. Almost.
He just needs to let it die first.
“Please touch me.” I’m whining as I inch my finger deeper inside me while stroking my clit with my thumb. Usually, it takes a few good strokes to get me going. Now? “Oh gosh—”
Vadim moves with a calculated focus. One of his hands grabs my thigh, wrenching it higher as he palms his cock with the other. It’s a sight unlike any other—his piercing glows, electric amid the swollen crown. No porno could ever compare to this, watching him angle himself against me.
My eyes roll as he slams forward, thrusting inside me with no preamble.
And I nearly come off the couch. He’s so big. One thrust takes him deep, so deep. I cry out as my body grips him so hard I swear I can feel the outline of each one of those pulsating veins—every curve of his piercing.
And it feels beyond good.
My brain boils more with every thrust. Any semblance of coherence my thoughts possessed dissolves. I claw at him, nails drawn, urging him deeper, harder—to give me everything.
But when glimpsed through my heavy eyelids, he looks more determined than ever. Like a doctor carefully doling out an allotment of medicine. Just enough to do the trick.
But never enough to overload.
Never enough to lose control.
I’m aware of it—the boundary he maintains even as I tremble around him, gasping for breath. How he grips the back of the couch as if to maintain the same, consistent rhythm as he thickens inside me, demanding more…
That he denies himself of claiming.
And when he growls through his own release, he doesn’t throw his head back in triumph. Instead, he grits his teeth, cutting off the noise. Closes his eyes, cutting me off.
“N-No!” I arch into him, letting my body grip him so ravenously we both cry out. “I want to see you. Please…”
His eyes reopen, but they’re dark. Detached. Disconnected.
He withdraws abruptly, letting me slump against the couch. A lazy smile shapes his lips before panic can even set in fully—but it persists, nonetheless. This horrible sense that I’ve done something wrong. Offended him somehow.
Or that for him, real no-holds-barred pleasure was never part of the deal. As if reading my mind, he steps forward, his gaze softer. But his frown persists, ruining the façade he puts up. I’m five seconds from salvaging my pride and leaving altogether when he cups my jaw, tilting my head back to easily meet his gaze.
“Beautiful,” he says, his voice deep.
And I let my brain turn off, ignoring those tiny warning signs urging me to run.
Chapter Four
Somehow, we wind up on the floor with me on top of him, his hands on my waist. I marvel at the beauty of his body, feeling up whatever parts of him I can reach. Even his scar. Despite its jagged appearance, the skin feels surprisingly soft to the touch—like silk.