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“How are you?” I ask spontaneously, and not without regret.
What the fuck kind of idiot am I? This is not the kind of conversation you have with someone you’re keeping against their will.
She looks at me curiously and shrugs. She’s just as surprised by my impulsvity. “What do you mean?”
I try not to stare at the nipples poking through her T-shirt.
Hell if that shirt wasn’t a good purchase.
I gesture around the room. “Do you have what you need? Are you comfortable?”
She thinks for a moment. “I guess. It’s my first time on a yacht. It’s pretty cool. I suppose you’ve been on them hundreds of times.”
I slowly shake my head. “You have no idea. I grew up with nothing. Less than nothing, actually.”
Fuck, why was I telling her this?
“We were so poor I had to dig in the neighbor’s garbage for scraps.”
Her eyes grow wide as her hand flies to her chest.
This is why I don’t tell people my story. I hate pity. I hate the look that settles on their faces, all but saying ‘poor Ilya.’
But she says nothing. And I can’t keep myself from continuing.
“There were some rough times right after the USSR collapsed. My dad didn’t take it well. He was always a big drinker, like a lot of Russian men, but he just started to lose himself in the bottle.”
“What happened to him?” she asks quietly.
I haven’t even shared this story with Bogdan and Fedor. “He was in a bar and got in a fight, probably being an asshole. He was jumped on the way home. Stabbed.”
She nods slowly, her face curious—but not pitying. “It’s incredible to know that was your life. I mean, look at you now, surrounded by such riches.”
She’s right. I am surrounded by riches. But the feeling of being poor will never be completely gone. Poverty is funny that way.
Abby takes a seat on the bed next to me. “Seems we both have lived through some fucked-up family shit.”
I nod, remembering the story about her mother bailing.
So I take her hand and gently lay her back on the bed. I run my fingers through her wild, curly hair, and trace an outline along her temple, over her cheek, and to her mouth.
She laughs. “You’re tickling me.”
“Shhh,” I say, brushing my finger back and forth over her lower lip, examining it like it’s the first time I’ve seen it.
And maybe it is. I’ve looked at Abby many times over the past couple weeks, but I’ve never reallylookedat her.
Until now.
I push my finger between her lips, just to the first knuckle, and she closes around it. I push further inside her mouth, and she sucks, swirling her tongue. I slide it in and out and goddamn, I’m about to cream my pants just watching her.
I jump off the bed and in two steps am at her door, which I close with abang. Then, I lower my shorts and holding my cock at the base, return to the edge of the bed, watching her part her lips just enough to moisten them with the tip of her tongue. Her nipples are so hard they’re nearly tearing through her shirt and it’s all I can do to keep my hands off them, but I’m holding my dick and that’s my priority at the moment. And just as I expected, she scoots to the edge of the bed, digs her fingers into my ass cheeks, and pulls me in to lick the precum off my dick.
That little swipe of her tongue nearly kills me, and I push into her mouth like a man possessed. I’m thinking with my little head, which I hate because that shit is dangerous, renders a man weak, and leads to nothing but trouble.
Yet here I am.
And they call women the weaker sex? The fools who believe that are fucking idiots. There’s nothing weaker than a man with a hard-on.
