The words change her face. Real shyness, not coyness.
I release her wrist and cup her face. “Look at me.”
She does.
“This happens only if you say yes.”
Her throat moves. “I said yes before.”
“Say it again.”
For a second, she looks at me like she hates how much she needs the choice.
Then she answers. “Yes.”
I kiss her once. Hard.
Then I lift her from the table and carry her down onto the rug in front of the fireplace. She gasps when her back meets the thick fur, ruined dress tangled around her hips, bare tits flushed from my mouth. Firelight moves over her skin, over the red silk torn open around her, over the spread of her hair against the rug.
I stand long enough to strip out of the rest of my clothes.
Her eyes follow every inch. My chest. My stomach. My scars. My cock. When she sees me fully, her lips part.
I shouldn’t enjoy the nervousness in her face, but I do.
Not because she’s afraid. Because she still wants me despite it.
I kneel between her legs and pull the torn dress down her body, leaving her in nothing but ruined silk gathered near her ankles. Her underwear follows. I throw it aside.
She’s bare in front of me now. Pussy wet. Tits rising with every shaky breath. Eyes fixed on mine.
I take myself in hand and stroke my cock once, watching her watch me.
Her cheeks go red, but she doesn’t look away.
“Are you scared?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“Do you want to stop?”
“No.”
I lower myself over her, bracing one arm beside her head. My cock settles against her wet pussy, and the first contact makes her inhale sharply. I drag the head of my cock through her slickness, over her clit, down to her entrance, then back again.
Her fingers grip my shoulders. “That’s cruel,” she whispers.
“Yes.”
I do it again.
She trembles under me. “Yaromir.”
“I know.”
“No, you don’t.”
I look down at her. “Then tell me.”
