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Our wedding night.
It feels as surreal as it sounds.
My eyes drift shut as Nikolai’s lips move higher, kissing my collarbone and my neck before claiming my lips in a deep, sweetly cajoling kiss. It’s like a drug, that kiss, an aphrodisiac of the most potent kind. His sensual scent fills my nostrils, mixing with the faint aroma of vodka on his breath, and my arousal grows as his tongue strokes and caresses the recesses of my mouth, feasting on me with tender skill.
Still kissing me, he slips his hand between our bodies to find my aching clit, and I moan into his mouth as his fingers press on just the right spot, the one that intensifies the ache, adding to the tension growing inside me. A tension that swiftly turns unbearable as his fingers embark on a maddeningly uneven rubbing rhythm while his lips return to my neck, where the damp warmth of his breath sends pleasure chills down my arm.
I’m so turned on I may explode, yet the orgasm is still somehow out of reach.
Panting, I buck against his hand, desperate for a smoother, harder rhythm, and his teeth graze over my earlobe in warning. “No, zaychik,” he whispers, and I feel the wicked curve of his mouth against my throat. “You’re not ready yet.”
Not ready? I’m ready to beg, plead, and sell my firstborn. With each light, circling stroke of his fingers, I get ever closer to the edge, but I can’t go over it, no matter how hard I try.
“Please…” I shimmy my hips in desperation, my hands fisting in his hair. “Please, I need…”
He leisurely licks the underside of my ear. “What? What do you need?”
“To come,” I gasp, bucking against his hand again. “Please, Nikolai, I need to come.”
“Wrong answer.” His fingers stop moving altogether. Lightly, he bites my earlobe and lifts his head, his eyes gleaming darkly. “Tell me the truth, zaychik. What do you need?”
“You,” I whisper, staring up at him. “I need you.”
And it’s true. I can’t imagine being anywhere else, with anyone else, ever. I need him not just for this orgasm but for him, for everything he is, good and bad, sublime and terrifying.
It must be the right answer because he kisses me again and his fingers return to my clit, bringing me back to the edge, to that elusive, maddening cusp of ecstasy. But sadist that he is, he keeps me at that peak, prolonging the exquisite torment until I’m panting and clawing at his back. Then and only then, when I’m ready to scream in frustration, he lets me go over.
The surge of pleasure is so intense it’s like an endorphin bomb exploding in my brain. Every nerve ending in my body lights up with the potent force of it, my vision cutting in and out as my inner muscles spasm. The sensations are so overwhelming I lose myself in them, and by the time I come down to earth, he’s already pushing into me, his thick cock forcing apart my tender tissues. His face is taut, his jaw clenched from the strain of holding back, and though he’s still being careful and gentle, I’m so sore from last night I can’t help wincing.
He stops, letting me adjust, distracting me with more of those deep, sweetly drugging kisses, and when I’m a quivering heap of need, my body wet and pliant, he begins thrusting. His pace is slow at first, controlled, but when I wrap my legs around his muscled ass, pulling him deeper into me, his control snaps and he takes me with all the driving power of his hard body.
I come again, screaming his name as he shudders over me, and it’s not until he withdraws some minutes later that I realize he’s kept his word and worn a condom. A condom he disposes of before carrying me off to the bathroom, where he deposits me into an already-prepared bath.
“Thank you,” I murmur, meeting his gaze as he joins me in the warm, bubble-covered water, and he smiles, the look in his tiger eyes so achingly tender my heart squeezes in my chest.
“For what, zaychik?”
For you. It takes everything to hold back those words, words that are far too close to an admission of my feelings. Instead, I lay my palm along the hard contour of his jaw and plant my lips on his, expressing with my body what I don’t dare say out loud.
Not yet, at least.
36
Chloe
I wake up still feeling that warm glow, a high that intensifies when I open my eyes and find him lying propped up on his elbow next to me, watching me with a tenderly possessive smile.
“Good morning,” I murmur, pushing my hair off my face and fighting the urge to rub the sleep out of my eyes.
How long has he been awake and staring at me like this? More importantly, how much of a hot mess am I this morning? I did my best to remove my makeup in the bath last night, but I’m sure traces of eyeshadow and mascara are still smeared around my eyes, raccoon style, and my breath is not the freshest after all that alcohol.
