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I gasp when his fingers drag through my wetness. Dmitri just laughs as he pulls his hand free and licks a drop of me off his knuckle. “Like fucking honey,” he growls in the raspy tone he saves exclusively for occasions like this.
I’m still a little thrown by the unexpected left turn my evening has taken. Forty minutes ago, I was neck-deep in mockups and architectural blueprints; now, suddenly, I’m dressed to the nines in the back seat of a million-dollar armored vehicle while a gorgeous man in a flawless tuxedo licks my juices from his fingers and tells me I taste like honey.
I’m gonna need a second to catch up.
“Dmitri, I?—”
But no sooner do I start to speak than he clamps his palm over my mouth. I can taste myself on him and nothing has ever seemed so erotic.
“Hush,” he orders. That rasp is magnified, intensified, deepened in a way I didn’t know it could. And his eyes flash like black flames to match it. “Hush and stay hushed. I won’t be interrupted again.”
I nod weakly. My head lolls back against the seat as Dmitri’s fingers dance up my thigh slit and find my pussy again. The first touch is electric; the second, third, and fourth are all it takes to become orgasmic.
By the time he’s buried himself to the knuckle inside of me, I’m bucking my hips and moaning recklessly into his palm. If Pavel can hear—well, that no longer seems quite as mortifying as it did a moment ago.
Dmitri’s mouth drags down my top and suckles over one swollen breast. Those two points of contact send me soaring into the stratosphere.
“That’s my good little girl,” he murmurs softly as I come on his hand. “You’re so pretty when you obey. Keep listening this well and I might even paint you with my cum tonight.”
He doesn’t quite stop, not even after the first orgasm has faded. He keeps going, working faster on my clit until a second orgasm is imminent. Then?—
“Nuh-uh-uh, moya zhena,” he warns. “Don’t get greedy now. I’ve been generous giving you one orgasm before you’ve even devoted an hour to my boring dinner. We had a deal, remember?”
This asshole.
But I won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing how insane he’s made me already, even if it’s blindingly obvious to anyone with eyeballs. I clamp down on my lower lip to stop from whining and/or moaning until he eats me out. Instead, using my reflection, I arrange my hair back into some semblance of order and touch up my smudged lipstick.
“How do I look?”
“Like a woman who just came on her husband’s hand in the back seat of a vehicle.”
I’m torn between a laugh and a wail. “Why did you have to go and do that now? I have to look presentable!”
He chuckles. “I could fuck you raw and come on your face and you’d still be the most beautiful woman in attendance tonight. Actually, now that I think about it…”
I shove him away with a laugh. “You wouldn’t dare. Stay on that side of the car, you beast.”
Dmitri laughs, though he keeps his distance as requested. “You don’t have the faintest idea just how many things I’d dare to do to you, Wren. But tempt me and you might find out.”
God or Satan or someone with a wicked sense of humor cranked Dmitri’s filthy mouth to its highest setting tonight. I can’t say I mind; something about the combination of a Tom Ford tux and depraved fantasies just stokes the heat in my belly that much higher.
We might be in for a very long night, him and I.
We must be among the last to arrive, because when we do, the ballroom is packed to the gills. I’m still too flustered to have put a proper meet-and-greet face on, but that doesn’t stop everyone from gawking.
We’re barely two steps into the hall when a glittery older couple dart up to us. “Mr. Egorov!” the male half crows. “How nice to see you at one of our events after so long.”
I’ve seen Mr. Arnaud before. He’s visited Egorov Industries enough times for me to remember the face and the name. As far as my memory serves, he’s a half-French, self-made millionaire with a popular winery that he’s now expanding into an empire. On his arm is his very British wife, who’s wearing the kind of expression that makes me feel like she wants to roast me like a duck and serve me for dinner.
“This is Louis Arnaud,” Dmitri introduces. “And his wife, Verity.”
“How lovely to meet you both, Mr. and Mrs. Arnaud,” I say with a small, awkward, shuffling attempt at a curtsy.
“And this—” Dmitri says with his hand on the small of my back. “—is my wife, Wren Egorov.”
That makes my blush go ten shades redder. Not just because I’m still getting used to it, but also because both Louis’s and Verity’s eyes go wide. Everyone in eavesdropping distance does the exact same.
But to their credit, both of them recover quickly. They compose themselves and come straight in for a hug and a kiss on each cheek. “Delighted that you could join us, dear Wren.” Her eyes dip down to my belly. “May I?” She doesn’t wait for my answer before running a bejeweled hand over my stomach. “Exciting times! A new baby. A new marriage.”
