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The two of us have spent enough time not communicating, and look what happened. It’s time we learn to communicate verbally as well as we do physically.
He sighs and wraps his hands around my arms.
“What’s wrong with the world now?” I ask, sensing his frustration.
He laughs darkly. “There’s always something wrong with the world.”
“That’s a very Russian point of view, Mr. Sidorov,” I tease him, and he pulls me into his lap.
I kiss him hard, running my fingers through his hair in the way I know he likes. He sighs and pulls away, resting his forehead against mine.
“Kat, I think you might be the only thing right in this world.”
My heart warms at his words, and I kiss him deeply, pressing my body against his. His hands slide down my bare back, and I arch against him. It’s crazy how ready I am for him again. I’m sure that much time has passed since I fell asleep, but I need him inside of me again.
“Why are you wearing so many clothes?” I complain.
He laughs, easily sliding out of the boxers he has on. “I’m sorry my boxers were such an inconvenience to you,” he whispers.
“Don’t you forget it,” I tell him, capturing his lips with mine and stroking him until he’s fully standing at attention.
“What do you say?” he asks. “Gentle and slow, or quick and wild?”
“Quick and wild is truly more our speed,” I tell him.
He stands up, turning me around so my breasts are pressed against the glass of the window. It’s like he’s read my mind, like he knows how much I secretly like showing off for the world. He lifts my leg slightly and enters me from behind so my body is pressed between him and the cold pane.
My nipples are hard against the glass, and I cry out in pleasure, lost in the dueling sensations. He thrusts inside of me quickly, bringing his hands around. With one hand, he teases my rock-hard nub while he rubs my sensitive wetness with his other hand.
All I can feel is him, everywhere. He’s inside me and around me. Pressed against me and in the air that I breathe. I close my eyes and scream his name, overwhelmed by my senses. If I could bottle this sensation, no woman would ever be depressed again. We would constantly be seeking the pleasure this man provides.
I love him and I crave him. I’m a mess without him, and I’ll never get over the way he loves me. Nothing in the world feels as good as he does. He pinches my nipple gently, causing me to moan again and press myself closer to him.
The friction makes him more enticing. I feel the sweat beginning to form on his skin, feel his warm breath in my ear. He’s so close, and I want him to come inside of me, to leave his mark the way he always does. I want to be filled with him.
“Let go,” I scream. “I need to feel you come.”
He cries out, so close to the edge.
I reach behind me, tangling my hand in his hair and pulling until he screams in frustration. His lips dip to my neck, and he sucks at the sensitive skin.
“I’ll come when you come,” he says breathlessly.
His fingers work more frantically at my sensitive flesh, and a new sensation sweeps over me. I’m not just going to orgasm, I think I’m going to squirt all over him. Fuck, this feels good. I scream his name, losing myself until I feel the familiar pleasure crash over me, knocking me over.
His hand goes to my waist and he holds me there as he comes inside of me. If I weren’t pressed between him and the window, I would literally fall onto the floor. My legs feel like Jell-O. They burn in a way I’ve never felt before. I pant, gasping for air. God, I feel good.
He pulls me back, walking us toward the bed. That was, by far, the hottest sex we’ve had so far, and we’re both spent. It takes all his strength not to collapse on top of me, but he lies back on the bed and pulls me on top of him. I pass out, unable to keep my eyes open for one more second.
I’m pulled into a wonderful dream. He’s there, of course, and we’re sitting in Central Park, having a picnic. There’s no one around us, and he slips his fingers under my skirt. Even in my dreams, he gives me nothing but pleasure.
I stir, feeling wet already. When I open my eyes, I see that he’s propped up on his elbow, watching me.
“Good dream?” he asks with a smirk.
“I honestly don’t remember it,” I lie.
He hums and examines my face. He knows very well that I was having a sex dream, and he knows it’s about him. But he doesn’t force me to admit it. Instead, he runs his hand through my hair and smiles.
