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“Remove your pants, Mr. Slater,” I say in my firmest teacher voice.
Dash slides off me and while he shoves his cargo pants down, I stand up, but don’t make any move to get undressed. He arches a thick, dark brow as he steps out of his sexy black boxer briefs and kicks them aside.
“Aren’t you going to join me?”
“In a minute,” I respond with what I hope is a sexy, little smile. “But there’s something I want to do first.” Taking a step closer, I place my hands against his firm chest, giving a light but decisive push. “Sit,” I order. When he does—without question, but with a curious glint in his eyes—I drop down on my knees in front of him, place my hands on the tops of his thighs and look up.
Dash’s eyes glow, their blue-green depths now full of fiery need. “Lake—”
I wrap my fingers around his cock and explore the engorged, pulsating length of him. This part of him fascinates me and I love watching his reactions when I touch, stroke and lightly squeeze. Finding out what he likes is my main goal and it’s pretty clear I’ve figured it out when he starts getting vocal.
When I pause, scared that Finn could possibly hear, Dash reads my trepidation and my mind. “He can’t hear us,” he forces out, voice strained, hands curled into fists.
Thank God.I grip his thick base then lower my head and wrap my lips around him, keeping my eyes locked on his the entire time. My experience with oral sex is a lot like it was with regular sex. Nonexistent. But I must be doing something right because Dash leans back on his elbows and, as I pull him deeper into my mouth, his eyes roll back in his head.
Then I suck until my cheeks cave.
“Christ,” he hisses, hips bucking up. He reaches down, slides his fingers through my hair, curling them tightly, and pulls.
I close my eyes and focus my attention on how he feels, tastes, and sounds. I want to remember everything about every first experience with Dash.
After a few more teasing licks and deep sucks, I feel Dash reach for me, dragging me up into his arms. “Enough,” he whispers, tugging at my clothes, grabbing the condom.
With his help, I shed every article of clothing I’m wearing, flinging them haphazardly around the small room in my eagerness to be back in his arms. And then he’s above me, eyes locked on mine, and sliding inside me. A shudder runs through me as our bodies connect 30,000 feet above the ground. Dash doesn’t hold back and his pace is fast and steady. Almost relentless. There’s an urgency that’s overtaking both of us and I wrap my legs around his pistoning hips, opening myself up to him completely.
And it’s not just my body I’m offering.
It’s also my heart.
On a damn silver platter.
It doesn’t take long for my release to hit hard. My inner muscles begin contracting, squeezing around him, attempting to pull him deeper. I bite my lip, trying not to cry out, but I can’t help it. It’s a losing battle and a cry tears from my throat. Above me, a shudder rips through Dash’s body and he drops down on top of me with a throaty growl as he comes.
The feel of his face buried in the curve of my neck does something funny to my insides. The slight scratch of his stubble, the delicious way he smells, the way he’s stretching my body, filling me completely.
It all feels so right.
Shit.There’s no denying it. I’m falling in love with Dash Slater and I’m not sure if that’s good.
Because involving my heart may prove to be a very, very bad thing.
???
By the time we land in Russia, I’ve had so many orgasms that I’m having a little trouble walking straight. Behind those sharp cheekbones and enigmatic smile is an insatiable man who did everything in his power to make me come until I nearly passed out from the pleasure.
I never knew it could be like this. But then again, with anyone else, it wouldn’t be like this. Dash is the only one who has the power to blow up my mind and body this way.
The first thing we do is go straight to a safehouse on the outskirts of Moscow, and I’m happy—and more than a little relieved—to see it’s stocked with all of the basic necessities including food, toiletries, clothes and outerwear. Because Russia is flipping cold. We throw a quick meal together and Dash calls up an old friend who might be able to help.
“Who is this friend?” I ask and bite into a sandwich. We’re sitting at a table in the small kitchen, refueling after our 4-hour sexy romp.
“Nikolai Vasilevsky, aka Nik Valentine,” he answers, scarfing down a bag of chips. “He’s former Russian Intelligence and splits his time between here and the US. At one point, I considered recruiting him to come work for me.”
“But he didn’t want to?”
Dash shrugs a shoulder. “No, he gets on my nerves and I decided it was better to keep him as a freelance agent. Plus he’s a wild card.”
“And you’re a planner.”
