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Maybe I should have played around with them, just a little. Found a pleasure that was all my own and not dependent on the whims of a man.
“What about this?” His fingers roll over my nipples, pinching and pulling, not hard but enough to send shocks of desire down between my legs, my clit pulsing with each tug as if there’s a direct line between his fingers and my most sensitive spot. I can feel him hardening against my leg, steel covered in velvet, the heat of it burning into my skin as I shake my head.
I didn’t have that many friends, anyway. Definitely no boyfriends. No one to make out with, to tease, to play, to explore. I was sold off to the man who suited my father best, and all of my firsts were with him. A man who didn’t deserve them.
Well, notallmy firsts.
Viktor took the last one of those that I had to give just before we came to Moscow. How do I feel about that? Do I resent him for taking away the only thing I had left that I hadn’t let a man use for his pleasure? Do I care? Does it matter at all?
Do I wish I’d offered it up, instead of having him demand it?
I’d come, so maybe not. His demanding, his dominance, the way it had made me feel dirty and small and reckless and wanton all at once, had made my body light up with pleasure. So maybe I don’t wish it had happened differently.
His tongue is on my nipple now, circling, sending those sparks of pleasure across my skin. I can’t speak, I can’t think, and I know deep down that nothing has changed, that I’m not supposed to be enjoying this. But I can’t deny that Iam, that it feels good, that I don’t want it to stop. That electric tether from my nipples to my clit pulses again, throbbing with every flick and swirl of his tongue, and when he tightens his lips and sucks at my sensitive flesh, I can’t stop myself from moaning, crying out as my fingers run through his soft dark hair.
I don’t stop him when his hand skims over my ribs, down my flat belly, down to where I’m wet and aching for him, dying for his touch. I don’t stop him when his fingers brush over my clit, circling the same way his tongue is still making circles around my other nipple now, working in such perfect tandem that I feel as if my head might explode from the sheer pleasure of it. When his teeth scrape against my nipple as his fingers press down on my clit, rubbing now, pushing, I think I might come on the spot. I’m so close, dizzy with pleasure, and when he pulls away, I let out a small cry of protest.
He moves over me, nudging my legs apart with his knee, and I get a good look at my husband before his mouth comes crashing down on mine.
If I’m being honest, my husband is the most handsome man I’ve ever seen. He’s fit and muscular, but not overly so, every line of his body lean and elegant and graceful in a way that not all men can achieve. His dark stubble and chest hair are flecked with grey here and there, reminding me that he’s considerably older than me, in his late-thirties, nearing forty. A thing I might have cringed away from, given a choice, but find inexplicably sexy in him. There’s something about his commanding demeanor, the dominance that comes with his age, and those flecks of grey hair that turn me on despite myself.
He growls above me, his lips brushing over mine, cursing in Russian as need overcomes him. That turns me on too, despite myself—I shouldn’t be turned on by his vulgarities, aroused by his Russian-ness, Though, the brutality of it is somehow arousing, the danger inherent with the fact that he’s not only Bratva, but their leader.
TheirUssuri.
“I need to feel you.”
The words startle me, thrill me, my disciplined husband losing control as he nudges between my thighs, his huge cock thick and swollen and pushing at my slick, wet folds. But more than that, the intensity behind his words, a need that I hadn’t known my husband could feel for me.
A need that I’m unsure about howIfeel.
He parts me roughly as he thrusts inside, his movements sharp and almost desperate as those first inches slip inside. I tighten around him immediately, my body eager for him, much to my chagrin. The pleasure is overwhelming as he slides in as deeply as he can go in one long thrust, pressed against me when there’s nowhere left for him to go.
I gasp with pleasure, a sharp intake of breath that only deepens when he cups my face with his hand, lowering his mouth to mine again.
The kiss is deep and intimate, his tongue sliding against mine, eager and hungry. It’s a lover’s kiss, the kind of kiss a husband gives his wife. One that says that I’m his, that every inch of my body is his to explore. One that tugs at something deep inside me, something that I’m afraid to examine too closely.
When he rocks his hips, his cock rubbing at that spot deep inside of me, I moan aloud. When he whispers dirty things to me, telling me how much he loves to fuck me, how he loves feeling me still full of him from last night, that he can’t wait to fill me again—I feel a thrill I never knew I could experience. I didn’t realize I wanted things like that, to have a husband whisper something so depraved in my ear, to be bent over and spanked, forced to my knees, taken in the ass. But all those things have made me wet, over and over again, turned me on when I would have sworn they never could.
I want him. At this moment, overcome by pleasure, I let myself admit it. I wantthis, the way he uses me for his own pleasure, spreading me apart so he can watch himself thrust into me. Pulling out and then sinking back in inch by slow inch while he watches his cock pierce my tight, clenching body.
“Feel your tight little pussy being fucked by that thick cock—”
The words shock me, thrill me, turn me on. When he reaches down to flick his finger over my swollen clit in response to my pleas, when he makes me beg to come, I think I’ll dissolve from the pleasure and humiliation of it all at once.
“That’s right, princess. Beg for it.”
He doesn’t call me the Russian word for it, just princess. As if he knows I’ll like that better. As if he knows it’ll send a flush of arousal through me for reasons even I don’t understand, until I’m gasping, arching, begging. Feeling on the verge of tears when he tells me to wait, that I have to wait for him, wait for his permission.
Feeling as if that’s right somehow, as if that’s what I wanted anyway. Needed, even.
“You get off when I do—”
I’m so far gone that it doesn’t even occur to me to argue when he tells me to play with myself, when he says that I can’t come if I don’t, when his blue eyes burn into mine. I know it’s that or stay like this forever, hovering on the edge of some brutal ecstasy that I feel as if I’ll die without.
“Don’t come yet, or I’ll punish you.”
Is it wrong that I almost want that? That I almost want to let the orgasm crash over me before I’m allowed, breathe in the scent of his skin and soak in the sensation of his thick length stretching me, let his groans ripple over my skin and my mouth and explode with pleasure before he comes, just so that I can feel the sting of his belt or his hand against my ass again?
