“I wanted to touch it!”
“You can touch it when it’s soft.” There’s a joyful lilt to the words. “News flash, that’s one way to make it hard.”
Though I pout, I let my fingers drift over the head. As much actionas my toes have seen, it doesn’t prepare me for the feel of him in my hands.
The texture of the tip, the way it concedes to the press of my thumb. How the slit is sensitive and he shudders when I accidentally rim it with my nail.
As he swells in my palm, I study those contrasts and find myself enchanted by them.
Especially when, seeming to sense that I’m unsure what to do, he shows me how to move my hand.
“It was easier with my feet,” I grumble.
“You have to be the only woman in the world who’d give a foot job before a hand job.”
“Is that a complaint?”
“Definitely not. Who knew you’d have such pretty feet,kotik?” he quips, but the muscles in his jaw constrict when I twist my hand around him at the same time as I stroke his shaft.
His hiss soothes something inside me.
He’s so free with his responses. Never bottling them up. Letting me witness what he’s feeling.
It might not seem so impressive with a man who isn’t a criminal for a living, but his ability to maintain a poker face must be high up on the list of job requirements.
When he shuffles me toward the corner of the stall, I barely notice. Until I’m there. Then, I glance around and frown.
“I bet in a past life you were an Australian Shepherd.”
He nuzzles his nose against my cheek. “You’re shy.”
I tilt my head toward his. “What makes you say that?”
“You touch first to take control of a situation.” His lips press kisses along my chin. “You don’t need to be shy with me, Victoria.”
“I think I do.” I arch my neck, encouraging him to go lower even as I continue stroking his cock. The heat of the shower creates a haze between us, a smokiness that makes this seem more intimate. “You’re the only one who matters.”
He pauses. In fact, he doesn’t just pause. His whole body, tensed and looming in front of me, freezes.
His breath rushes over my sensitive throat, sending sparks of pleasure through me.
Then, he graces me with a single kiss. “Thank you,korovka.”
I swallow. “You’re welcome.”
His lips trace over my collarbone, then soar higher, dipping here and there, sending sensation shooting across nerve endings that have never been touched.
It’s such an intimate moment.
More intimate than I think it ever truly registered two people could be withoutsexsex.
His fingers slot around my wrist and, gently, he releases my grip on him. But his kisses don’t stop. The soft caresses ground me. Soothe me.Remindme—that I’m his. No rush. No race to the finish line. This has nothing to do with getting off and everything to do with reconnecting.
I lick my lips when he pulls back, then, in Russian, murmurs, “It’s been a long day. Let’s get some sleep.”
“Sleep?” I croak.
He dips his chin, cuts off the shower, which seems wasteful since we mostly only got wet and not clean, and then reaches for a towel. He pats me dry. Doesn’t grope me. Just tends to me and God, did I need this.
