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Then the time for talking is over with. He presses into me slowly, letting me adjust to the size of him. I tip my head back against the lip of the pool and let out a long, broken sigh. He keeps going for what feels like an eternity. I’m taking and taking him until I can barely breathe. That sigh slows to a whimper, then to nothing at all.
When he’s fully seated in me, he draws back and fills me again. The water slows his thrusts so I have no choice but to feel every single inch of him sliding against me. It’s a slow, devastating drag in and out. The heat and strength of his body, cool pool water lapping at my nipples—I’m burning up and freezing at the same time.
His hand dips below the water and then his thumb is on my clit. He pulls and pinches until I’m vibrating.
“You might as well get the first one out of the way,” he advises with a dark laugh. “No point in delaying the inevitable.”
I squeeze my eyes closed. My mouth falls open and a string of moans and jumbled thoughts pours out of me as I pulse around Yakov. By the time I’m done coming, I’m drooling.
Yakov kisses my neck. “You’re so fucking beautiful when I make you come.”
I peek one eye open to see he’s watching me. His pupils are blown so wide that his eyes are nearly black. I literally just came, but the look in his eyes makes me immediately want to do it again and again.
As long as he’ll keep looking at me like that, I’ll do anything he wants.
I wrap my arms around his neck and angle my hips until he fills me all the way again. “Am I still beautiful when I make you come?” I tease.
Yakov spins around so he’s the one against the wall. It takes every muscle I have to impale myself on his cock again and again. He made it look easy. No surprise there.
As I grind up and down his throbbing cock, he presses his forehead against mine and murmurs, “Only one way to find out.”
That’s when I kick the turbo jets on. I ride him as hard as I can, panting between kisses, stroking my fingers through his damp hair, until finally, Yakov goes rigid.
“Fuck, Luna.” His fingers dig into my hips as he jerks and spills into me. The strain in his voice as he says my name is enough to send me over the edge with him.
I lie my head on his chest as I finish. His heart is thundering at the same rate as mine.
Back inside, I wait for Yakov to abandon me for his office. He’ll find some excuse to leave—a meeting, a call. But he follows me down the hall to his room. Our room, for all intents and purposes.
I bend down to find a pair of jeans from my bottom drawer and Yakov growls.
“That fucking bikini.” He pulls his damp shirt over his head, and just like that, I’m the one biting back a groan. It should be illegal for him to look that good and glisten. I half-expect his hair to start blowing in a nonexistent breeze.
“You’re so dramatic.”
“You’re gonna kill someone in that thing.”
“I can’t tell if you love it or hate it,” I remark, padding into the bathroom to change. I shouldn’t be embarrassed changing in front of him, but it feels too domestic for whatever it is that’s happening between us.
“It depends who you’re wearing it for.” I hear drawers opening and closing in the bedroom. “If you’re wearing it for me, I fucking love it.”
I bite the corner of my mouth to hide a smile. “And if it’s for someone else?”
I’m sliding on my jeans when Yakov appears behind me. I catch the flex of his jaw in the reflection of the mirror. He cups his hands over the bikini top, crumpling the fabric in his hands. “If it’s for someone else, then I’m going to shred it, burn it, scatter the ashes to the wind, and then cuff you spreadeagled to a bed so I can remind you that no other man will ever touch you the way I do.”
As good as that sounds, I can’t lie. The growly, snarly, no-one-else-should-ever-fucking-dare possessiveness in his voice has wiped my brain completely clean. I’m not capable of giving him anything except the truth.
“It’s for you,” I whisper. “There’s no one else.”
He nods, satisfied. “Good.”
Then Yakov turns and retreats back into the bedroom like nothing happened.
Meanwhile, I grip the edge of the sink and dunk my face in the cold water. Suffice it to say that he and I handle sexual tension in very different ways.
My legs are still unsteady when I walk out a few minutes later to find Yakov fully dressed, sitting on the edge of the bed. What’s happening here? I want to ask. What am I to you?
But I can’t force the words out. I’m afraid whatever I say will break this tenuous balance we’ve found. If I ask the wrong question or push too hard, the walls of this sandcastle we’re living in will crumble.
