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It’s true that I don’t have a choice, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t like that.
Peter’s shirt comes off first, and I watch with bated breath as the muscles in his abdomen flex when he reaches for the zipper of his jeans. He has a warrior’s body, lean and hard, with powerful, clearly defined muscles and tattoos covering his left arm from shoulder to wrist. Like the small scar bisecting his left eyebrow, most of the scars on his torso are faded, but the one across his stomach is fresh; it’s where he was knifed a few weeks ago on the job in Mexico. Those scars are a reminder of what he does, of what he is, and my heart constricts as I reflect again on the fact that I’m sleeping with a killer.
My husband’s killer.
He’s blackmailing you into this.
It’s the truth, and it somehow makes it better when he steps out of his jeans and comes toward me naked, his long, thick cock curving up to his navel. It’s fucked up, but I don’t want to have a choice in this, not when the desire incinerating me is a betrayal of everything I hold dear. Like this, I can tell myself that I’m doing this for a reason… that I’m not completely lost.
“You are fucking gorgeous,” he whispers roughly, bending over me, and I close my eyes, unable to bear the intensity in his metallic gaze as he undresses me. The feel of his hands, so strong yet so gentle, makes my body pulse with need, even as my heart bleeds for everything I lost, for everything those cruel hands have taken from me. The tears I’ve been holding back leak out, trickling down my temples, and I shudder as he kisses them away, his lips soft and warm on my damp skin.
He kisses my lips next, then the tender spot behind my ear and the sensitive column of my throat. It’s not until his mouth travels down to my breasts that I realize I’m already naked, my clothes removed while I battled confusing thoughts. His lips close over my nipple, the hot, wet suction making me arch off the bed, and I find my hands buried in his soft, thick hair as my hips shimmy against him, seeking relief from the tension growing inside.
Stop. Please stop.
The desperate cry reverberates in my mind, but I don’t voice it. I can’t. Not because he wouldn’t listen, but because I couldn’t bear it if he did. Maybe if I hadn’t given in before, it would be easier. If I didn’t know what it feels like to have him in me, I might’ve found the willpower to resist. But I do know, and my body wrestles with my mind, undermining my efforts to control my response, to hold back even as I give him everything.
“Yes, that’s it,” he breathes against my nipple as his fingers part my folds and find me slick and swollen, so aroused I can scarcely stand it. “Let me have you, ptichka. Let me give you what you need.” His callused thumb circles my clit as his middle finger pushes into me, and I moan as my inner muscles clench around the digit, my body craving more of the invasion.
Peter obliges, pushing in a second finger, and the moan turns into a gasping cry as he resumes sucking on my nipple, the dual stimulation making my spine curve and my heart gallop in my chest. I’m close to an orgasm, I can feel it, and when the tension finally crests, I come so hard I cease to breathe for a few vision-dimming seconds. My whole body shudders from the relief of it, the explosion of pleasure rippling down to my toes as Peter’s fingers move in and out of my body, stretching me, preparing me for what’s to come.
I’m still in the throes of orgasmic aftershocks when he moves up, his knees parting my thighs as he laces his fingers with mine, pinning my hands next to my shoulders.
“Look at me,” he orders hoarsely, and I dazedly obey, opening my eyes to meet his burning gaze. His heavy weight presses me down, his masculine scent filling my nostrils as his cock brushes against my inner thigh, hard and massively thick. With my hands pinned to the bed, I’m helpless, completely at his mercy, and there’s something perversely exciting in that, something as dark as the need boiling in my core.
“Tell me you don’t want this.” His tone is harsh, his expression almost violent. “Lie to me, and I’ll stop.”
My chest heaves convulsively as I hold his gaze, my lungs working overtime. I don’t know why he’s saying this, but I do know what I want, and it has nothing to do with being able to call my parents.
