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When he spread me open, I nearly passed out from expectancy, fingers at my opening, eyes on mine with a steady lust that was not going to be quenched without seeing me satisfied. And I wanted to be completely satisfied with him. A few days without it was actually horrible for me. Because while hating him, I wanted him in a way I hadn't wanted him before. Which made me hate him all the more for making me crave such a dangerous thing.
But at that moment, I did not hate Adrik Mikhailov, I craved him. So, when his lips collided with my opening, determined tongue pressing against my pleasure points, I moaned his name without even thinking. It echoed the space around us, but I didn't care if anyone heard. As long as he didn’t stop touching me that way, I would have been completely indifferent towards everything else.
He swept his perfect tongue over my clit so many times that my entire body was somewhere completely new and different. I think I came ten times and I'm not exaggerating. When he finally stopped, he slid my pajama pants back on for me, kissing my quickly rising and falling stomach, which would have made me question his intention had I not been coming down from the most euphoric experience of my young life. I looked up into his eyes, glazed over with a new form of affection, no one had ever looked at me like that before, and I cupped his perfect jaw with my hand.
His hard cock was pressed to my stomach. Even through his pants, I could feel its hard length needing to be satisfied. I reached down, fully intending to pleasure him, but he stopped my hand, rolling on his back and taking me with him so I was sitting on his abs.
I traced a finger down them, covered in ink. Too much for me to point out every detail of, though I wanted to take the time to learn everything. He pulled my face to his, kissing my lips and then I kissed him back like it was normal and I couldn't have it any other way. His cold hand slid into the opening of my pajama top, grabbing my breast and softly thumbing over my nipples before sliding both of his hands down to my hips.
My body shivered under his cold and adamant touch as our lips continued to collide. While he guided my hips over his hard cock, straining beneath me, just fabric separating us. As he rocked me against him, I realized what he wanted and an instinct took over me as I ground myself over his cock, a strange sense of power filling me. He let out a moan into my mouth, sucking on my bottom lip as I moved faster over him. Eventually he took the lead, moving my hips even faster over him until his jaw tensed, eyes closed completely as I panted down his neck. Then he stopped me, holding me close as he turned on his side.
He kissed my forehead with a heavy breath, pulling the blankets over us both as we held each other for a long time. The silence felt familiar and easy and I liked the beat of his heart to the background of our breathing. It was a warm day, not because the sun had finally risen, but because our body heat was warm with satisfied passion. We were suspended for moments I care more about than I will fully admit, even now.
Though, that particular morning did feel different, holding one another and grasping at each other with that same frenzy that overtook us just a few nights before.
The rest of the morning we doodled with watercolor pencils and finished most of the coffee he brought until both of us were shaking a bit from how much we had to drink. That felt like a beginning for us, a new start, one where we could both agree to disagree and make it through this strange version of courting.
And that brings us to now, two months into this bullshit.
The problem is, no matter how badly I try to resist him, he continues to seduce me, and we continue to go further than I think we should. We mostly just keep finding ways to push the limits without him ever penetrating me, but it’s not a great game to play.
Not just because the longing for that, specifically, grows the more we sneak around, pushing boundaries I shouldn’t have ever needed to set in the first place. And then there’s the fact that we continue the same ebb and flow we have since I arrived. That back and forth that’s seemingly never ending.
One day, we’re great and fucking around in one of the cars in the garage when we said we were just grabbing something from the cellar. Then I’m angry at him all over again for something or other, and somehow he comes up with a way to make everything better— at least for a little while.
We’re stuck in this stupid square dance. Except it’s more of a circle, and we’re going around each other like we’re set on this course for collision. It’s catatonic, and I don’t know how we’ve continued like this— falling into and away from each other for months.
Today we’re on good terms, and have been since Sunday. It’s only Wednesday, so we’ll see how far we can get without him getting drunk, starting a fight with someone— namely, me— or just deciding to display the horrible half of his personality. I’m starting to know when I set him off, why he lashes out, but it’s too late by the time I recognize it, and he’s already fuming.
I sigh as I make my way to the kitchen before the sun is up, trying to fiddle with this stupid nightgown that Olive and I got at a thrift store in town. She loves it, which I get because she’s all about vintage designer things, but I’m more focused on the new. The present. Anyway, it’s this old school frilly piece that I guess really isn’t a nightgown at all, but I’ve decided it’s the only suitable place to wear it.
It’s a rose colored, silk and satin mixed, thin-strapped, mini-dress with a frilly almost animal-like pink fur around the entire top rim of it. I pull my hair down, and put on some pink socks that almost look like the fur material lining my dress. This is a little routine I’ve gotten into with Adrik, I sneak downstairs in the morning, and he cooks me my favorite breakfast. We pretend we aren’t going to do anything, but he always ends up locking the door and touching me the way I like. Then we’re on the floor or the counter or the table, doing stuff we shouldn’t.
So, today I decided to wear something apart from an oversized sweater and sweatpants. After all, the snow has melted quite a bit, and I take that as some sort of sign to dress a little less. Who am I, and how have I gotten this far out of grasp that I am actually wearing something to seduce my husband-to-be into doing things with me that we know we’ll do anyway? I trot down the steps, a little too pleased with myself, despite my slight nerves trying to force me into an honest look at myself.
I guess I haven’t had much time for honesty these days. At the kitchen door, I knock three times, and it creaks open. Shirtless, a kitchen towel over his tattooed shoulder and a frying pan in his left hand, is Adrik’s sleepy grin, greeting me before I’ve kissed it.
Yeah, we do that now— kiss each other for no reason at all and every reason possible.
“How’d you sleep?” He pulls out my chair for me and heads back over to the stove, that focused look on his face telling me he’s missed the view. I look down at my dress.
“I slept well… probably better than normal in this new night gown.” I swear his ears almost perk up like a freaking dog, and he slowly turns to me, eyebrows up with a wide grin.
“Oh shit.” He breathes, eyes practically bulging as he clutches his chest dramatically. I let out a giggle that I think only he’s ever heard because it never comes out unless he’s around. “You look absolutely gorgeous.” He leaves the pan and walks over to me, dropping to his knees and kissing up my legs as I let out little breathy laughs, and he likes them. I can tell because he’s grinning like he’s pleased with me, and I love the naive sense of accomplishment this gives me.
His hands grip my thighs as he rises to my lips, then pulling me in closely with his hand at the back of my head. I melt at his touch as if I’m chocolate, and he’s taking his time devouring me. It’s the best feeling and the worst because I hate myself a little more than I hate him on our bad days, but I won’t stop him. I’ve learned the hard way, starting things like this, doesn’t ever end with stopping until we’re both winded and sweaty, swirls of pleasure twisting in our simple minds. And we are simple— simple for wanting things like this and being so easily distracted by one another.
He kisses down my neck and I grip whatever part of him is closest to me, throwing my head back as those all-too familiar and ever-addicting chills rise like I’ve been dying for his touch. In a way, I have. And I don’t know when we got to this point— me wanting him so badly that my body aches when he isn’t around. So strange how you can become so attached to the person holding you captive.
I’m definitely in a Stockholm syndrome scenario. Send help. But actually, please don’t.
He kisses down my chest, and I’m quivering under the weight of his delicate touch because it’s not the strength of it, but the implication. The way it tells me he’s not stopping for anything, and I won’t be the one to stop him. His lips find new ways to excite me as his hands explore other parts of my body.
We are lost in each other, clinging to every part we can until there is nothing left but lust and hot breaths on sticky skin. I swear we’re on fire as he lays me across the table, intentionally not yet set.
“I see the plates haven’t made their way here yet.”
“I don’t need a plate for this.” He kisses me roughly on the lips, and he pulls my legs over his shoulders, going straight to the heat of me, already wet with arousal— and naked because I intentionally didn’t wear underwear. Oops.
