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ANASTASIA
Ithink I did something wrong.
Because the tension that’s been floating in the air for the past half hour is suffocating.
Even more than when he fucked me on the floor, face down, and made me come the strongest I ever have.
Without a condom.
Again.
But for some reason, that doesn’t make me mad. Deep down, I liked the sensation of his hot cum inside me and the friction of his skin against mine.
In fact, I liked it so much, I might be a little bit obsessed with it. And his rough dominance.
And devious fucking.
And everything about him, really.
But that’s wrong. I shouldn’t be so tangled up with him that I can’t escape his trap.
Even now, I can’t stop staring at him, at his broad shoulders that are stretching his shirt. But that’s not the only thing straining against his shirt; there’s also his bulging biceps, his pectoral muscles, and even his abdomen.
A wave of heat slaughters the fairies in my stomach and I clench my thighs together to trap whatever sensation is trying to escape.
I pulled on my hoodie earlier, but I couldn’t locate my panties, so I’m bare and that feels so revealing. Vulnerable, even.
My breathing is harsh and I’m glad I put on my “Oldies” playlist when we sat down so he can’t hear the loud inhales and exhales or how much I’m crossing and uncrossing my legs.
Besides, even on a low volume, my playlist gives me peace and a sense of courage. It’s even stronger than liquor in that department.
We’re sitting across from each other at the coffee table, eating the pizza I ordered. Or, I’m nibbling; he’s studying my small place with a critical eye. From his point of view, this must look so subpar. There are smoke lines on the cracked ceiling that is decorated by some star drawings the previous tenant left behind.
My furniture is sparse to none. Since this is a studio apartment, I only have a sofa that can be turned into a bed and a table—the one we’re sitting around. On the floor.
But he’s not looking at those, his attention is on the clothes scattered everywhere and the dishes piled up in the sink.
“I was going to clean them,” I blurt.
He focuses back on me with a small smirk. “Did I say anything?”
“I can tell you were going to.”
“You can tell how?”
“Well, people like you don’t appreciate the chaos.”
“People like me?”
“Prim and proper.”
“Liking things organized doesn’t have anything to do with being prim and proper.”
“Yes, it does.”
“No. You’re living proof of that.”
“How is that?”
