I’m drenched. Slick heat coats my inner lips, an undeniable wetness he finds immediately. His fingers, calloused and sure, slide through my folds, gathering the moisture. The sound is obscenely loud in the quiet room. He traces my entrance, a slow, maddening circle that makes my hips jerk.
“Already?” he asks, his tone a mix of mockery and dark pleasure. “All it took was a little correction?”
He doesn’t let me answer. One thick finger pushes inside me, not slowly, but with a firm, delicious stretch that steals the air from my lungs. He works it in and out, a ruthless, efficient rhythm. My walls clutch at him. A second finger joins stretching me wider. A broken moan spills from my lips.
O-oh god…
“You like that,” he states, watching my face. “You like my fingers fucking this tight little cunt while I mark your neck.”
I can only nod, as pleasure coils deep in my belly, a spring winding tighter and tighter. He curls his fingers, finding a spot inside me that makes stars burst behind my eyelids.Close. I’m so close.
Oh god, please, please…
“Please don’t… don’t…”
And then he stops.
He pulls his fingers out completely, leaving me empty and aching. The wet, slick sound of their withdrawal kills me. He brings them to his mouth, his eyes locked on mine as he slowly licks my taste from his skin. The visual is so fucking filthy, so possessive, that a fresh wave of wetness soaks me.
I forget the frustration that washed over me when his fingers pulled out.
“Not yet,” he rasps and I almost beg him to continue but he starts again.
His hand slides over my stomach, his touch possessive, mapping my body. His thumb finds the small, silvered scar just above my left hip bone—a pale, neat line against my skin. His movementstills. His eyes, which had been clouded with lust, sharpen. They meet mine, that stormy blue now clear and piercing.
"Dorogaya, tell me the truth. Where did you get this?"
My throat goes bone-dry, and I try to pull together the scattered pieces of my composure.
"It’s nothing," I whisper, the word sounding thin and frail against the wall of his chest. "I had an operation when I was much younger. It’s just... old tissue."Lie. Keep lying.
I expect more prodding but he just looks at me, and in that look, I feel more naked than I ever have. Then he bends. He lowers his head, and his mouth—that demanding, punishing mouth—presses a slow, searingly hot kiss directly onto the scar tissue.
The gesture is so tender it fucking unravels me. It’s a kiss for a wound, for a secret. My eyes burn, a sudden, shocking sting. All my defenses, the walls I’ve built brick by brick, crumble into dust right here on his childhood desk. He’s kissing the part of me I’ve tried to bury, and the vulnerability of it is a sharper, deeper ache than any physical pleasure.
A ragged sob threatens to escape but I bite it back.
No, I can't let myself go. I can’t.
“I’ve got you,” he whispers against my skin, his breath hot on the sensitive mark.
His mouth moves lower. His tongue replaces his fingers, a broad, wet stroke through my soaked folds. I cry out, my hands flying to tangle in his dark hair. He eats me with a focused, devastating intensity, his tongue fucking into me, lapping at my clit with firm, rhythmic passes. The coil inside me snaps back into place, winding impossibly tight.
He brings me to the edge again with his mouth, his tongue a wicked, clever instrument. He lets me hover there, trembling, my thighs shaking around his head. Then his fingers return, two of them plunging back inside me, crooking just right, while his thumb presses firm circles on my clit.
It’s too much. The orgasm tears through me, a violent, shattering wave that has me sobbing his name, my body bowing off the desk, my shoes digging into the wood for leverage. It feels endless, wracking, a total collapse of every thought except the pulsing, clenching pleasure he’s ripping from my core.
When the last tremor subsides, I’m boneless, panting, slick with sweat and my own release. He pulls back, his own breathing uneven. His lips and chin are glistening. His eyes are dark, the hunger in them not sated, but stoked into a deeper, more dangerous fire.
He stands, looking down at me, a fallen, wrecked thing on his desk. He adjusts his trousers with a grimace, the prominent bulge barely contained. He runs a thumb over his wet lower lip, tasting me again.
“When I finally fuck you properly, Irina,” he rasps, his voice raw, “it won’t be on a desk.” He leans in, his mouth brushing my ear. “And I am going to fuck you until you can’t remember your name.”
A sharp, rhythmic knock at the door makes us both freeze.
"Mikhail? Irina?" It’s Milana’s voice, muffled and hesitant. "Dessert is being served. Papa is asking for you both. "
Mikhail looks at the door, then back at me. A slow, wicked grin spreads across his face—the Madman is back, and he’s found a new way to play. He reaches down and picks up the lace panties he’d discarded on the floor––when? I don’t know. He doesn't hand them back. He folds them and stuffs them into the pocket of his trousers.
