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“You’re positively dripping,” he observes, his tone hovering somewhere between playful and predatory.
Then he reaches between us to stroke two thick fingers between my folds. His touch is silken with the lubrication of my juices, gliding through my slit with a sinful kind of friction. A soft cry parts my lips as his fingertips brush across my swollen, sensitive clit, lighting up my nervous system.
“You like that?” Maks purrs, his lips so close they brush across mine as he speaks.
Consumed by my euphoria, I can only bring myself to nod. My next cry vanishes into his mouth as he claims my lips at the same time as he presses two fingers inside my entrance. Then he groans. I writhe beneath him, my heart hammering as my excitement skyrockets once again.
Maybe it’s that I haven’t been with a man since my mom got so sick, or maybe this god of a man knows just how to provide women pleasure after years of experience. But every brush of his thumb across my clit, every penetrating thrust of his fingers, is driving me wild.
Hips rolling in time with his hand, I grind against his palm, relishing in the calluses that release jolts of blazing pleasure through my core.
“Come for me, Angel,” he breathes against my lips, and I have no choice but to obey.
I groan as my second climax rolls through me like a tidal wave, washing away all my troubles and leaving me in a sweet, euphoric oblivion. My walls clamp down around his fingers, begging for more as he curls them to stroke my G-spot.
When I finally come down from my high, my body is so intensely relaxed that my eyes start to flutter closed.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, I’m aware of the fact that he’s still calling me by my stage name. I probably should have told him my real name when he told me to call him Maks. But it feels too late now, and since this is a one-time deal, I suppose it doesn’t matter if he calls me Angel or Heidi.
“You aren’t going to fall asleep on me, are you?” Maks teases softly, calling me back to the moment, his facial hair whispering across my cheek as he leans close to my ear.
“No,” I breathe, shaking my head to reinforce it. We had a deal, and I mean to see it through. Though his attention to my pleasure before his own has put me at ease in a way I never could have anticipated.
“Are you up for a little fun, then?”
He leans up onto his powerful forearms to gaze deeply into my eyes, and for a moment, I’m captivated by the molten silver of his own. I hadn’t realized how beautiful they were beyond the sadness.
“We haven’t been having fun already?” I ask with a hint of exasperation.
And for the first time, I detect the hint of a smile curving his soft lips.
“For what I have in mind, you would have to be willing to trust me.”
My heart skips a beat at the dare reflected in his gaze. Once again, my mind sets off warning bells, reminding me that this man could be dangerous. But for some reason, I feel safe with him. And now, I’m dying to know his definition of fun.
“I trust you,” I murmur.
6
MAKSIM
What started as an unusual sense of protectiveness for the young, eager dancer has turned into a fascination. Her almost shy hesitation in the beginning gave her a dignity that seems to vanish the instant money gets involved. But now that she’s nearly naked beneath me, her body my playground, I seem to have unlocked a daring, adventurous side of her, a willingness to explore and immerse herself in my world of pleasure.
God, she’s sexy. Her innocent expression of euphoria that seems completely without expectation is turning me on. I want to explore her, see what kinks she might enjoy, how she’ll react to the intense combination of punishment and reward.
“Follow me,” I command.
Standing from the bed, I offer Angel my hand as she reaches the edge. Even her smallest gestures are elegant, and when I pull her to a stand, she watches me with intense curiosity.
“Is this when all the... toys come out to play?” she asks, her slight Southern drawl giving her question a hint of impertinence.
“Would you like to play with toys?” I counter, curious if the question stems from fear or anticipation. Arching an eyebrow, I reach around her to unclasp her bra while I wait for my answer.
Angel urges the straps down her arms and lets the lacy cups fall to the floor. Her breasts are perfect, pert, round, firm, beautiful in their naturally modest size. As a model, Symphony had paid well for her curves—or I had. She’d insisted that the agencies would only hire women with above-average breasts. But that doesn’t seem to concern Angel.
“Well?” I press when the silence stretches between us, and to urge her response, I give one pert nipple a soft pinch.
Angel inhales sharply, her chest flushing with fresh excitement. “I don’t know,” she finally admits.
