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I meant it as a joke, a light flirtation at best, but his face goes taut, his gaze darkening as he leans toward the camera. “I like hearing my name on your lips.” His voice is a low, honeyed purr. “And I really, really like it when you beg.”
My mouth goes Sahara dry, my heartbeat uneven as fire streaks through my veins and centers low in my core. With him so far away and our video chats staying mostly on safe topics, I’ve somehow let myself forget about the sexual tension that smolders between us, ready to ignite into a conflagration at the slightest spark. I’ve convinced myself that I imagined that feeling of being hunted prey… that alarming, yet strangely exciting awareness that I’m at the mercy of this dangerously alluring man.
“Is that—” I swallow, uncertain if I should venture there. “Is that your thing? Women begging?”
The dark heat in his eyes intensifies. “My thing, zaychik, is you. I want you in every way possible… sweetly and roughly… on your knees, and on your back, and on top, riding me… I want to eat your pussy for dessert after each meal and pour my cum down your throat every morning. I want to fuck you so hard you scream, and then I want to cuddle you for hours. Most of all, I want to drown you in pleasure… so much pleasure you won’t mind the occasional bite of pain… In fact, you’ll beg for it.”
Oh. My. God.
I stare at him, my breaths short and shallow, my clit throbbing and my nipples pebble hard. My body feels like one of his nuclear reactors in meltdown, the heat under my skin so scorching I might spontaneously combust. Or come. If I put any pressure on my clit right now, I could definitely come.
I wet my lips, trying to ignore the pulsing ache between my legs. “So… you are into stuff. Like, kinky stuff.”
As soon as the words leave my mouth, I cringe at how juvenile and vanilla I sound. And I’m not vanilla. At least I don’t think I am. My sexual fantasies have always had a darker tinge to them, and I’ve had a boyfriend tie me up once or twice—and another time, spank me. None of that turned me on, but then again, my boyfriend wasn’t really into it. It felt awkward and forced with him… childish, somehow.
I have a feeling it’ll be nothing of the sort with Nikolai.
The man doesn’t know the meaning of childish and awkward.
Sure enough, his lips curve in another darkly sensual smile. In a voice like heated silk, he murmurs, “Chloe, zaychik… I’m into everything—as long as it’s with you.”
This time, it’s my heart that goes into meltdown mode. Because it sounds a lot like… “Are you saying you don’t want to see other women?” I blurt, and immediately want to kick myself for once again sounding like I’m in high school. He’s just flirting, not making any kind of exclusivity commitment. We haven’t even—
“I don’t,” he says softly, bringing my thoughts to a screeching halt. “I don’t want anyone but you. I haven’t since the moment we met.”
“Oh.” I stare at him, unable to come up with anything else to say.
This is big.
Huge, really.
There’s no possible misunderstanding here, no chance that I’m being a foolish romantic.
Nikolai is telling me that he wants me and no one else… that essentially, we are exclusive.
“Does this scare you?” he asks, disconcertingly astute. “Is this too much for you?”
It is. Way too much. And yet… “No,” I say, gathering my courage. “It’s not. And I—I don’t want to see anyone else either.”
His nostrils flare. “Good. Once you’re mine, I won’t deal kindly with any man who tries to steal you.”
A startled laugh escapes my throat, but Nikolai doesn’t smile in response. His gaze remains fixed on me, his expression darkly intent, and to my shock, I realize that he means it, that it’s not a joke at all.
I attempt to make it into one anyway. “Possessive much?”
“With you,” he says, his gaze unwavering, “very much.”
My heart stutters to a halt again. “Why me?” I ask when I recover my voice. “Is it because I’m the only woman here, within arm’s reach? Is it a convenience thing or…” I trail off as amusement brightens the dark gold of his eyes, highlighting the flecks of forest green.
“If I were so inclined,” he says gently, “I could have a different woman flown in every week—and I often did before you came. There’s no lack of candidates willing to make the trip, believe me, zaychik.”
Oh, I believe him. Even before I came across those tabloid photos, I knew he must have a stable of gorgeous women at his beck and call. How could he not, with his looks, wealth, and sex appeal?
