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He curses under his breath and lifts me to standing. My back is arched, my shoulders against his chest while he pounds into me.
I lay my head back on his shoulder, whimpering with every thrust.
Timofey wraps his hand around my throat, and he was right, it’s torture. I’m so close, but I can feel him holding back. He’s moving with even, practiced strokes. I need wild. I need feral.
I need the blue-eyed beast.
“Maybe it won’t happen, after all.” My voice is high and breathless. It’s obvious every word out of my mouth is bullshit, but I tell it anyway.
“Liar.” Timofey squeezes my throat tighter. I can feel his teeth on the back of my neck.
I shrug. “It’s okay. You finish. I’m fine with two.”
“Piper,” he warns, “don’t play with fire.”
I don’t just want to play with fire; I want to be consumed by it. I want to burn.
“I’m just being honest. This isn’t doing it for me anymore.”
He cries out suddenly, and then he is everywhere.
Timofey drills into me from behind as his hand wraps around my hip. He flicks and circles my clit, and I scream into the empty garage.
“C-come with me,” I beg, fighting off the pleasure building in me. “Please. Come with me, Timofey.”
His breathing is ragged. A string of Russian words I don’t understand pour out of his mouth.
For some reason, that is what does it for me.
I come for a third time, this one so powerful that the first two feel faint and distant in comparison.
Heat erupts inside of me, and I pulse around Timofey’s thrusts again and again and again.
“I feel you,” he groans, tightening his hold on my throat until I see black at the edge of my vision. Somehow, it adds to the pleasure. I feel euphoric. That feeling only grows when Timofey goes rigid behind me. Then I feel him twitching deep inside.
I gasp his name again and again. Until he stops thrusting into me and collapses on top of me.
I’m content under the weight of him, happy to be crushed.
If this is torture, I never want it to end.
65
PIPER
Timofey pulls up his jeans and leans against the hood. It’s the perfect position to watch me hunt for my clothes.
“You could help,” I say, snatching my panties off of a side mirror and finding my shirt under a workbench in the corner.
He shakes his head. “I’m fine here.”
Honestly, I’m fine here, too. The world feels manageable in this garage. The two of us make sense in here. But the world out there is complicated. The longer we can stay in this sexy, sweaty bubble, the better.
“I’m not even going to bother with the panties.” I hook them around my finger and fling them in his direction. Then I step slowly into my jeans and shimmy them up my legs.
It’s a cheap trick, but based on the way Timofey crushes my underwear in his white-knuckled fist, I think it might be working.
If we only had sex once, but I came three times, would this next round be number two or number four? I’m trying to solve that philosophical riddle when I hear a loud rumble.
