Page 119 of I’m The Worst

My chest heaves.

I can’t.

I fucking can’t.

Outside the closet, boots and Russian voices pound past.

Wolff presses in tighter, shielding me completely with his body as his forehead drops against mine, breath hot on my lips. My fingers clutch at his coat desperately, trying to hold on to something solid.

“Good,” he says when I drag in a broken breath. “Again.”

Another set of footsteps passes outside.

Closer this time.

I squeeze my eyes shut.

Wolff’s hand slides from my jaw to the side of my face, rough fingers brushing a strand of hair behind my ear with a gentleness so out of place it shocks me.

Wolff doesn’t touch like this.

“You’re okay.” His mouth is close enough that the words brush my lips. “We’re almost out. You’ve done good. So fucking good, solnyshko.”

My throat burns. Tears blur my vision as my breathing matches his—slow in, slow out. He adjusts his stance, his hips pinning me completely against the wall.

My body starts to respond to the closeness, the weight of him, the way his scent fills this tiny space.

His mouth is so close to mine.

Every inch of me feels like it’s caught between panic and wanting.

His hand stays where it is, thumb grazing the underside of my jaw, while his chest presses into me with each breath.

The footsteps outside fade.

It’s quiet again.

I tilt my head back just slightly, and his eyes meet mine in the dark. They’re hungry.

He shifts.

His thigh presses between my legs, and I bite back a gasp as it brushes against me exactly where I’m aching. My hips move, grinding against him, and a low sound rips from my chest before I can stop it.

His palm flies up, covering my mouth.

“Don’t make a fucking sound,” he orders, voice rough.

I nod frantically, my body trembling with need, with fear, with everything I can’t control. He shifts again, his thigh grinding up into me, sending a jolt of pleasure that makes my whole body arch against him.

I bite the inside of my cheek, trying to stay quiet, but I can’t stop the way my hips roll against his thigh, chasing friction.

His chest presses closer, harder, his heartbeat racing.

“Goddamnit,” he mutters against my ear, his breaths ragged. “Stop moving.”

But I can’t.

I need more.