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Leaning down, he sneers against my ear. “You’re such a dirty little whore, loving when I humiliate you.”
“Yes,” I whimper, my thighs clenching as my entire body hums.
“You like it when I gag you, force my fingers inside your pretty, little mouth, and make you lose control over your own spit?” He yanks at my mouth, making me feel the stark humiliation of his grip.
I squeeze my eyes shut as submission becomes a dizzying veil around my brain, making the car spin around me.
God, yes. It’s the best thing in the world.
I’m too lost in his power to form any words, so I settle for a, “Mh hmm.”
Grigory lets out a deep rumble as his other hand slides over my hips, and I realize I’m wiggling them furiously. He pops the button on the side of my pants and slides the zipper down. Shudders and sizzles erupt down my spine as he pushes his huge hand into my pants.
“Aaah,” I moan at the slick feeling of his finger slipping into my panties and through my wetness.
“Shame it’s such a hassle to fuck in a car. You’re like a cat in heat.”
I try to protest, but all I get out are more moans, and my hips keep wriggling, clearly not on my side anymore.
Grigory presses two thick digits inside me. Then he’s fingerfucking me, slow, deep thrusts that draw long groans from my throat and make me buck on the car seat. My toes curl in my shoes as a pulsing sensation tightens at my core, strumming through my body.
“Come like the good little whore you are,” he commands.
His words are like a bolt of electricity, firing through nerve endings and sending my body into spasms of pure bliss.
The car fills with moans and soft screams as I combust around Grigory’s fingers. He keeps pumping until I’m jerking from overstimulation, desperate for him to stop.
“Pleeease stop,” I whimper around his finger.
Grigory thrusts one final time before slowly dragging his fingers out, eliciting a few final shudders as he moves across my sensitive folds. Still hooking the side of my mouth, he shoves two wet fingers past my lips. “Clean them,” he orders, and I lap up the musky taste of my own juices while whimpering with dismay—and secretly loving it.
“Good girl.” He releases my mouth and hoists me up to sit against him.“Let’s go get something to eat.” Sliding a protective arm around my waist, he tugs me to him and pushes the button to make the window go down. “We’re ready,” he tells his driver.
Heat surges to my already warm cheeks when the driver gets into the car, which surely reeks of sex and depravity. The man doesn’t bat an eye. He just settles in his seat, sets the car into drive, and steers off the curb. As he weaves into the bustling traffic, I quickly forget about him again and settle in Grigory’s arms, happy and sated. Right where I belong.
— CHAPTER 21 —
CLARA
Things change between Grigory and me after the episode with my safeword in Berlin. It’s not a grand, earth-rattling change that turns my world upside down. It’s the subtle kind that slowly creeps in, almost unnoticeable yet very potent.
I keep up the ardent practice routine, and Grigory comes to see me whenever he can in the weeks leading up to Christmas. Nothing new in that. No, it’s his demeanor—the things he says—that change.
His mood becomes broodier, his manner more brusque, and his expression closed-off. When I try to engage him in a casual conversation, I often get clipped answers, and at the piano, he becomes more severe with his evil little stick.
The last time he used our time at the piano as an outlet for his frustrations was in the week leading up to theToscapremiere. He was stressed and conflicted about his emotions for me, and he kept pulling away even though he badly wanted me. This time, though, there’s no pulling away. On the contrary. He seems even more adamant about keeping me close, holding me every chance he gets and tightening his arms around me with an urgent need to feel me.
I do think he’s conflicted, though. But I have no idea why, and when I ask him if he’s okay, he writes me off with a clipped comment.
It’s not until he picks me up at the university one day that I start to get a sense of what’s bothering him.
As usual, he meets me on the road across from campus to avoid people seeing us together. When I asked him to do so this morning, he was unusually brusque. At the time, I figured it might have something to do with Christmas coming around and his schedule becoming extra busy. But when I open the passenger door in the afternoon, I get a feeling that it has something to do with me.
The car is teeming with his ill temper—like someone has taken a piss on his grand piano—and I hesitate at the curb, not particularly stoked about the idea of climbing into the lion’s den.
“Get in, Clara,” he orders, not even trying to hide his irritation.
Gingerly, I hop in and shut the door. “Is everything okay?”
