oenomel
(n.) something combining strength with sweetness
MILA
I should be questioning my life choices, searching for a key to Ivan’s cell, or doing anything remotely constructive. Instead, I sat in the drawing room and watched the sun sink below the horizon with the Bible on my lap. The book was in Russian and was therefore incomprehensible, but the words didn’t matter. It was the divine support I needed—similar to a crucifix or a garlic necklace.
Je hais Madame Richie. Tu hais Madame Richie. Nous haïssons Madame Richie. I was beginning to hate the fortune-teller more each day. I put all the blame on her for setting something in motion I couldn’t stop. I would take credit for my stupidity, but she needed to fess up to the spell she’d put on me to enjoy asphyxiation and the touch of darkness. Lack of college education notwithstanding, I knew nobody in their right mind longed for less oxygen.
The front door shut quietly, but it may as well have been slammed, the soft click sending an edgy vibration to the tips of my fingers. It couldn’t be any clearer who just came inside if a marching band preceded him. The energy he carried in rivaled the insidious screech in horror films as a glinting knife stabbed at its victim.
Ronan must have had a bad day at work.
Stomach clenching, I picked up the book, opened it to a random page, and pretended to devoutly read. My back was to the doorway, but I didn’t need to see it to know he’d silently entered the room. His presence settled over me like a blanket of slithering vipers: black, smooth, and threatening to bite.
I wondered if Moscow ran out of virgins to steal. I didn’t count given I was already stolen. And a slut at heart.
Jokes aside, I was a little concerned for my welfare at this point.
I felt Ronan move to the couch opposite me and take a seat. It was a battle to keep my gaze on the illegible Cyrillic letters, but I wasn’t prepared to acknowledge him yet. Disregarding the humiliation of this morning that raised a shameful flush to my skin, the suffocating tension he emanated was about as comfortable as jumping into a fire.
I realized he must know I went into his precious dungeon, and he was not happy about it. Yulia probably saw me at it with the eyes on the back of her head.
If Ronan didn’t want me in the basement, he should have put a lock on the door.
Chink . . . click. The sound broke the silence and squeezed the pulse point in my throat. My mind was a mess trying to decipher the product of the noise, but I forced myself to nonchalantly flip a page.
Ronan knew I couldn’t read Russian, yet he had nothing to say about the ridiculous, treasonable book in my hands. The room remained silent except for the incessant noise that frayed the edges of my nerves.
Chink . . . click.
I imagined this was worse than Chinese water torture. I suddenly knew he would continue whatever game this was for hours and that I would die in one. I gave in, flicked my gaze to him, and asked, “Do you need something?”
Elbows braced on his knees, his eyes held steady on a Zippo lighter in his hand, which he opened and closed. His demeanor was so cold a chill spread through me.
“Tell me why you are here.” His accent grated like sandpaper, but what made me tighten my grip on the Bible was the fact the demand was spoken in the voice of D’yavol—the immortal man who ruled Moscow and probably killed American cheerleaders for sport.
His order was vague, but somehow, I knew what he wanted. As always, my spirit ached to fight him, though a voice in the back of my mind cautioned me. I was no longer the only one he could crush beneath his expensive boot.
“I’m collateral.”
Chink. “Whose collateral?” Click.
I swallowed. “Yours.”
“Who else’s?”
The powerplay was beginning to blister. I may as well be on my knees at his feet just so he could reject me again. Je ne suis pas fière. Tu n’es pas fière. Nous ne sommes pas fières. I am not prideful. You are not prideful. We are not prideful.
With a shallow breath, I forced, “Just yours.”
“Just mine.” The words froze to ice, and his eyes finally lifted to mine, an immoral matte black. “Your misery, your attention, your body—all mine.” The caustic words settled on my skin, slowing each inhale. “I’m beginning to think I need to prove it to you.”
My heart plummeted when I understood what this was about. The kiss. A recollection came back, of Ivan looking at something behind me before he made his move.
Ronan and his secret cameras.
I was nothing but a chess piece being played in their vengeful game. My feelings didn’t matter. They never had. Heat washed up my back as resentment stirred, obliterating all traces of self-preservation.
I slapped the book beside me on the couch and stood. “I’m really not interested right now, but maybe tomorrow.”
The growl from deep in his chest resounded in my ears before he shot to his feet and flipped the coffee table over. The antique hit the wall and cracked along with my composure. Fine ornaments went flying, shattered on the floor, and skidded across the marble.
And he said I had a temper.
Heart in my throat, I held my ground and his stare. He took advantage of the now clear space between us to stride toward me, an unstable violence raging in his eyes.
Something drew him to a halt. He exhaled and ran a hand down his chest in such a refined way it was like he believed he was the composed one before grating, “Go to your room before I do something I’ll regret.”
A second ago, that was exactly where I planned to go, though since he’d demanded it, my room was now the last place I wanted to be. He’d probably have Yulia lock the door behind me, and if I had to endure another minute of solitude, I’d explode into yellow confetti.
He was giving me an out I should take, but my feet refused to move even as my mind told me to hightail it out of there. So many conflicting feelings tangled within, shoving my system off-kilter. Ivan had used me to get one over on his enemy. Ronan had betrayed, abducted, rejected, and confused me. I stared at him, digging my nails into my palms as the chaos inside begged for an outlet.
His eyes hardened, and, in a menacing tone, he threatened, “Go.”
I was warned, so, in essence, I had no excuse for what poured out of my mouth. On second thought, I blamed Madame Richie.
“Bite me.”
He watched me for a second that felt like an eternity, and then, a cruel, disbelieving chuckle escaped him, showing off sharp incisors. After wiping the mirthless laugh away with a hand, he gritted, “Don’t say you didn’t ask for it, kotyonok.”
In one stride, he grabbed the nape of my neck and pulled my mouth to his. The rough action stole my breath, which escaped in a hiss of pain when he bit down hard on my bottom lip. But as he soothed the sting with a soft lap of his tongue, a flame ignited, expanding liquid fire between my legs.
If the kiss was a chess game, I was the bespectacled novice. And he was the cheater who wiped the board clean and fucked me on top of it.
My mind disliked this man with a passion right now. I tried to shove him away, to turn my mouth from his, but the iron grip on my nape didn’t relent. My body held a different stance. It inhaled the heat of his, begging for more force, more intensity, more friction—so much more. The hot press of his lips and the taste of cinnamon sent a desperate hum through my blood, drawing me so close to the edge a cold sweat battled the inferno within. He slid his tongue against mine, creating a heavy ache in my core that scattered all thoughts for a feverish second.
Breath ragged, the struggle slowed, and my hands stilled on his chest. Vengeance bled into his kiss, which was soft yet furious and somehow cold—just like the look in his eyes before he left me on my knees this morning. He didn’t want me then. He only wanted me now to prove a point: I was his insurance, and only he could fuck with me.
Just as he thought the fight in me had faded, I bit down on his bottom lip so hard I tasted blood and threw my knee up. He evaded the hit to his groin with a growl and shoved me away from him. I caught my footing, the lack of his body heat making me cold.
“Where’s the passion you gave Ivan, kotyonok?” he asked harshly, wiping blood from his lip with a thumb. “I won’t believe you have reservations about kissing two men on the same day.”
A knot of anger stretched in my chest, forcing the insult from me. “The only reservation I have is kissing you.”
The next second of silence suffocated me, his eyes not leaving mine while a muscle ticked in his jaw. “I guess we’re both narcissistic then.”
Knowing his twisted definition of “lucky,” I swallowed and watched him warily. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
A sinful glint stole the heat from his eyes, the words cool and apathetic. “I’ve never been one to mix kissing and fucking.” The hiss of his Montblanc belt sliding through its loops dropped my stomach like a lead weight.
He didn’t intend for tonight to end with a cold shower.
Heart pounding like a racehorse’s hooves on dirt, I backed up until I bumped into the couch. The metal buckle hit the floor with a clank, stretching my skin taut. I told myself to stay strong and retain my dignity at all costs, but when he took a single step in my direction, I blurted, “I’m a virgin.”
He didn’t even consider it before laughing humorlessly. “You’re such a fucking liar.”
I shouldn’t have cried wolf so many times. Now, it was going to screw me over—literally.
“It takes one to know one, doesn’t it?” My voice shook. Each step he took toward me, I mimicked in the opposite direction until I stood behind the couch, a simple piece of furniture the only divider between us.
“Mm. We don’t know each other that well yet, but we will.” A shattered piece of porcelain crunched beneath his boot.
“You act like it will be memorable for me,” I retorted, forced to the front of the couch when he stepped around it.
“I’m sure it’ll be different than your experiences with pampered college boys.”
Frustration tunneled beneath my skin. That was the exact thought that led me into D’yavol’s arms, putting me in a position to be circling a couch to stay away from him.
“Ivan isn’t a college boy.” There Madame Richie went again, throwing Ivan under the bus.
His eyes narrowed dangerously as he braced his hands on the back of the couch. “Maybe not, but he is a pussy.”
“You don’t even know him,” I accused.
The subtle, dry look he gave me only affirmed my suspicion they knew each other, but the thought faded when fury reflected in his gaze, his voice harsh. “Mention him to me again, and you’ll be sleeping outside with the dogs.”
Uncertainty tugged at my throat. I countered one of his long strides, quickly taking a few steps to match it. “Stop sweet-talking me,” I said breathlessly. “I don’t think my heart can take any more romance right now.”
He almost looked as if he wanted to laugh—this man who was stalking me like a psychopath—but the darkness in him contained the humor.
“Your mouth isn’t going to save you this time.”
I didn’t know what he meant, but I also didn’t care at the moment. When I stepped to the side, he mirrored the motion. Nervousness radiated in my every cell, pouring out in winded words.
“I hope this isn’t how you normally get laid. It’s exhausting.”
A humored brow rose. “It’s a first for me, but thankfully, I’m open to new things.”
It was so nice he found the situation amusing while my heart was close to stopping. “I’m sure there are a number of nice women in Moscow who will accommodate you for a decent price.”
He watched me, shadowing each of my slow steps. “If I wanted another, it would take a single peach emoji text to have a woman here begging me to fuck her ass.”
The dirty mental image played behind my eyes, rose an innocent flush to my cheeks, and sent a cramped sensation to my chest. The feelings were so at odds with themselves that when he stepped around the couch, I faltered before finding my footing.
“I really can’t figure out how you get a woman after you open your mouth.”
“You’ll find out in a moment.” The weight of his stare made my throat dry.
I was growing a little dizzy from moving in a circle—especially with the small amount of food I’d consumed lately—but it didn’t stop my mind’s endless circus. I wondered about peach emojis and Nadia. I wondered if Ronan had been to the opera lately; if the singer wrote him another note and he took her up on the indecent proposition. The idea squeezed my lungs, creating a ripple effect from uncertainty to dejection to anger. Ronan could be having a threesome every night for all I knew, and I couldn’t even kiss another man without him turning into a virgin’s worst nightmare.
“Save your stamina for the next unlucky girl who catches your eye,” I said coldly. “Trust me, you’ll waste it on me.”
His stare threatened me to hold in what was on the tip of my tongue, but, admittedly, I didn’t take orders well.
“There are so many men in Miami. You’ll soon be forgotten along with all the rest.”
The words didn’t get the time to settle in the air. A single kick from him to the side of the couch sent it sailing across the floor, where it hit the wall and left me grossly unprotected. Holding his dark eyes, the coolness of the marble beneath my feet spread through me, my blood whooshing in my ears.
I took off for the doorway, but I didn’t make it that far. Ronan could have easily grabbed me by the hair and thrown me to the floor like the guard did, though he caught a fistful of my dress instead. I resented it more than if he had hurt me. I was suddenly desperate for pain; for agony to remind me of how little I meant to him before he stole my innocence and, in consequence, my soul too.
As he started to pull me back, I grasped at the side table, knocking things over in search of a weapon—or at least a way to push him to a point he’d make me recall I was nothing but his pawn. Clammy fingers found purchase, and before I could think it through, I spun around and shattered the vase against the side of his head. Glass fell to the floor around us, the room going deathly still.
In the movies, men went down.
Ronan didn’t go down.
My chest heaved, feet rooted to the floor as he closed his eyes and inhaled sharply. When he opened them, I expected his retaliation; I didn’t anticipate him to silently wrap an arm around my waist, lift me over the broken glass, and drop me onto the couch.
When his body came down on mine, so did the guilt, blending with the heaviness of him on top of me. His legs forced my thighs apart, his hands holding my wrists above my head.
Regret thickening in my throat, I breathed, “I won’t apologize.”
He pressed his face into my neck, making a dark rumble of satisfaction. “So you are learning something after all.”
As the adrenaline faded, it left me sensitive, exposed, ashamed. I didn’t want to be the kind of person who hurt others just because they hurt me. Something inside of me hated the idea of hurting him more than anything, even though nobody deserved it more.
Inked fingers may be holding my wrists captive, but they’d also saved and avenged me.
Guilt inflated in my chest like a balloon, and suddenly, all I could see was a little boy in a car sinking to the bottom of the Moskva at his own mother’s hands. I wondered if it was how Ronan got the scar on his bottom lip. The fact I could be the person to add another mark made me feel sick. The pressure forced an apology up my throat, but when I opened my mouth, he skimmed his lips across mine, saying harshly, “Nyet.”
We only inhaled each other’s exhales for a second. A heaviness invaded my chest, pulling me into dark waters alongside him, where I’d sink, and he’d swim. My only question was: Would he grab my hand, or let me drown?
I wasn’t sure I cared anymore.
I kissed the cut I’d made on his bottom lip. The action flooded the room with my silent apology, eliciting a noise in his throat that reeked of displeasure, but the feeling swelling inside compelled me to continue.
I dragged my lips to kiss the corner of his mouth, then the thin scar, which I softly drew my tongue across. With a rough sound, he gripped my chin and angled my head back so I met his eyes.
“I thought you had reservations about kissing me.”
The Bible dug into my spine. I was sure there never was a clearer sign to resist sin than literal scripture burning one’s back, but the idea didn’t stop me from looking the devil in the eye and saying two words that would lead me straight to the gates of hell.
“I lied.”
Two heartbeats passed, his gaze a dark, stormy night that charged the air with electricity.
“That’s a bad habit.”
“Mm,” was all I could manage, my entire body vibrating beneath the surface.
I exhaled when he slid a thumb across my cheek, and a satisfied, villainous look so akin to him touched his lips. “Don’t worry, kotyonok . . .” He leaned in and nuzzled my neck, his warm breath raising goose bumps on my skin. “Ya vyyebu vsyu lozh iz tebya.” The statement sounded like a threat, but there wasn’t time to ponder it.
He ripped my romper open.
Buttons popped off and scattered across the floor. The thin seams tore easily down both thighs, leaving only the skinny straps intact.
I wasn’t wearing a bra—which was a normal wardrobe adjustment since being here—and as soon as the cool air touched my bare breasts, so did he, molding the soft flesh of one to fit his hand before squeezing.
My skin was so sensitive it hummed. The roughness of his palm worked a tremble through me. I was burning everywhere, the simple friction of Armani branding me with a hot and uncertain edge. I couldn’t seem to do anything but lie there, my wrists remaining where he’d put them above my head.
I sighed, my fingers curling into fists, when he sucked a nipple into his mouth. Pleasure slid south, compelling me to raise my hips to meet his erection. With a scrape of his teeth, he pulled back, leaving the tips of my breasts tight and aching.
As he tugged my thong down my thighs, I suddenly knew there wouldn’t be any more foreplay involved; the hands on my body were rough and selfish. Although, this man had one mortal weakness: the covetous haze in his eyes that told me he was past the point of reason. The sight should scare me. Instead, I only desired to let him take whatever he wanted from me.
With a half-lidded gaze, I watched him lift my legs to pull my thong off. He tossed the fabric to the side, then gripped the undersides of my thighs and edged them back toward my stomach. A flush consumed me at how exposed I was, but the warmth of his stare on my sex, like he wasn’t sure what to do with it first, swelled a raw ache inside.
I let my calves fall to touch the backs of his hands and instinctively spread my legs farther. A heated glance met my eyes before he dropped one of my thighs, ran two fingers across my clit, and pushed them inside of me. As hot pressure expanded, I arched my back, a moan passing my lips. I gripped the edge of the couch cushion above my head, unable to do anything but rock my hips against his hand to stroke the fire.
Ronan dropped my other leg, gripped my face, and forced my gaze to meet his. “Eto moye.” This is mine. He punctuated the harsh words by scissoring his fingers inside of me.
My eyes rolled back, stars flying. Pleasure licked at my veins, building and building, until the feeling was all that existed.
Panting, I lifted my head to watch his hand between my legs, then dropped it back to the couch with a moan when he rubbed my G-spot. I was so close to release—so close I’d do anything to get there.
“Don’t stop,” I breathed.
“Ty dash’ mne trakhnut tebya?”
I didn’t know what he said, but I wasn’t sure I’d comprehend the words even if he spoke them in English. I could only close my eyes and chase friction until he pressed his lips to my ear and demanded, “Otvet’ mne.” Answer me. The words were soft and coarse but a command nonetheless.
I didn’t have the breath to tell him he was speaking Russian. All I knew was, if he kept fingering me, he could have anything he wanted: my heart, my soul, anal—whatever. So I hoped he sought a “yes” response, and I nodded.
He abruptly pulled his fingers away. The budding release crashed, and desperation seared through me in waves.
“No. Please,” I begged, my eyes flicking open. “Please—”
He covered my mouth with a hand and pushed into me with one hard thrust that tore a cry of pain from my throat. It felt like a lance of fire, burning so intensely tears pooled in my eyes. I gripped his forearm for something to hold onto, my blunt nails digging through his shirtsleeve. Reflexively, my back arched in an effort to shove him out, but he was too heavy to remove.
Ronan’s heart pounded against my chest, every inch of his body tense. “Kotyonok . . . yesli ya—” He clenched his teeth and tried again in English. “If I pull out, will I have blood on my cock?”
I didn’t know how he expected me to answer with his palm still covering my mouth, so I only shook my head in a hopeful lie. It was the perfect timing for a tear to run down my cheek and over his hand.
He watched the tear’s descent like it was acid, then pulled his palm away and braced both of them on the couch beside my head. “Fuck,” he growled before closing his eyes and exhaling. “Please tell me you’re just a really tight and emotional fuck, Mila.”
Clearly, I just gave my virginity to the most charming man in Europe.
Ronan already knew the answer, but it seemed he was grasping at straws. A tightness spread in my stomach with the feeling he would end this if I confirmed I was a virgin. Even though the foreign fullness inside of me burned, the walls of my chest threatened to fall apart if he pulled out. I wasn’t sure whether it was pain or something else that convinced another tear to run down my cheek.
“I think I just have some dust in my eyes,” I said shakily, throat thick.
He stared at me for a beat before releasing a frustrated noise between his teeth. I winced at the sting when he leaned back so he could watch his thick length slide out an inch. As a drop of wetness slid down my thigh, I realized he’d probably find evidence he thoroughly popped my cherry.
“Malen’kaya lgunishka . . .” he rasped, confirming I bled.
I forced a swallow when he ran a hand across his mouth, his gaze still between my legs. I didn’t know if he was fascinated by the sight of the blood or if he thought it would give him some kind of allergic reaction that would ruin his entire night.
Apparently, he was willing to risk it because, with a rough breath, he gripped my hips and eased back in. Inhaling, I slowly adjusted to the fullness of him inside of me before he pulled out a little bit again. He watched himself fuck me an inch at a time, the look in his eyes clouded thunder. His grasp threatened to bruise, but with every slow slide, the throbbing in my core began to warm and tingle. I shifted, which pushed him inside so deep he hit a pleasurable spot that drew a small hum from my lips.
“Fuck.” Ronan pushed away from me like I was on fire, releasing an angry, tortured growl as if I was the villain in the room who just stole his innocence. He left me lying there naked, a shaky coldness in my veins and an emptiness swelling between my legs. Confusion ran rampant as I felt him walk to the other side of the room.
“I don’t fuck virgins, kotyonok.” It was an icy, uncompromising statement.
I flinched as if he’d slapped me. The words were a blow considering he just took something I couldn’t give to anyone else and then threw it away like it inconvenienced him. My heart clenched. I hadn’t felt so vulnerable in my entire life. A hot and heavy mass invaded my throat.
With shaky hands, I closed my ripped romper as best I could and sat up, feeling so sick and naïve. I didn’t know why I did this to myself; why I cared so much tears burned the backs of my eyes; why I couldn’t hate him even now. If anything, I despised myself for serving Ronan the vulnerability on a silver platter, only for him to reject me like cheap vodka.
Je ne pleurerai pas. Tu ne pleureras pas. Nous ne pleurerons pas. I will not cry. You will not cry. We will not cry.
Pride seared like an ulcer in my stomach at the thought of Ronan seeing how much he affected me. So, even as a tear escaped, I managed an ill-humored, unsteady response.
“I wanted rose petals and lit candles for my first time, but, really, what could outdo this?”
His back was to me like he didn’t even want to look at me. “Trust me, I did you a favor.”
Honestly, what did I expect handing over my virginity to the man who abducted me? The fact that sentence even existed in my head told me I needed help.
Getting to my feet, a resentful scoff rose in my throat. “Yes. I can feel your good intentions. They’re a warm ray of sunshine.”
He released a dark, bitter breath and turned to face me, his eyes fierce. “I promise, your entire body would feel them like the weight of the fucking sun if I stayed inside of you even a second longer.”
I held his stare, the words washing over me but unable to find purchase among the humiliation and self-loathing within. All I wanted right now was to lick my wounds anywhere Ronan wasn’t. Too bad I couldn’t eat my sorrows in a carton of ice cream without the chance of getting a spoonful of cyanide in the mix. This place sucked.
I took a step toward the door but halted when he spoke.
“You aren’t leaving this goddamn room,” he gritted, looking completely disgusted with me.
Today was going to give me a massive complex.
“Sit.”
Frustration singed my spine, but I knew if I refused, he would bodily set me on the couch. I didn’t have the energy to fight him right now—trying to hold the walls of my chest together was a battle of its own—so, numbly, I sat, looking at everything but him. To say the room was a mess would be an understatement. Yulia was going to have a seizure.
I stared at the wall as Ronan dropped to his haunches in front of me. My throat grew tight when he wiped a tear from my cheek. I was tempted to push his hand away, but the heat of the caress overwhelmed me, tugging at the twine around my heart.
“Stop crying,” he demanded softly.
“No.”
His hand dropped from my face. “Keep crying then. Don’t stop until I say so.”
The tears suddenly stung like bleach, and I tried to blink them from my eyes. He made a dry, disbelieving sound in his throat, and I realized I was too distraught to gather he was using reverse psychology on me. Apparently, he’d learned I would do the opposite of whatever he commanded.
It went silent for a second before he spoke. “I can’t fuck you like that, kotyonok.”
I didn’t want to talk to him right now, but I was also too curious to let the brewing question go.
“Like what?”
“How you need it.”
I pulled my lip between my teeth, the uncertainty and feelings inside going up and down like a yo-yo. The confusion became too much. The moment was just too much.
Finally, I met his gaze. “Can I go now?”
He held my stare for a beat, a muscle ticking in his jaw. “Nyet.”
I sighed in frustration. “What else do you need from me tonight? I don’t care if you send me five peach emojis, I’m not giving you my anal virginity too.”
“Fuck,” he chuckled roughly. “Stop talking about being a virgin.”
“Why? Does it make you feel guilty?”
“It makes me want to be the first to take your ass too.”
Ignoring the heat rising up my neck, I raised a brow. “What’s the point when you’d take it for two seconds?”
His gaze hardened, then a ragged exhale escaped me when he grabbed my thighs and yanked my ass to the edge of the couch. I had to brace my hands behind me to maintain any sort of dignified pose.
“Don’t spread your legs, kotyonok.”
I glared at him, unwilling to let the trick work this time. Ripped fabric parted, revealing the curves of my breasts, my nipples hardening in the cool air. Why was I always the naked one? The only bare part of Ronan I’d seen was a few inches of his dick because the rest of it was inside of me.
“How sore are you?” he asked coarsely, his gaze slowly sliding up my naked body to meet mine.
My throat felt tight when I realized he did feel a little guilty. The thought aroused a weird sensation of solace, spreading something warm and heavy that melted all the tension within.
“Sore,” I exhaled.
He murmured something in Russian that radiated down my spine. When he pushed my legs apart, they complied.
He thumbed the top of one of my thigh-high socks, growling, “These fucking socks, Mila.” He tugged one down a little and nipped the flesh beneath it, sending a hot shiver through me.
Pulling back, the heat of his eyes warmed my sex, the ache inside coming alive again and pulsing. I was growing warm everywhere, the feeling interrupted by a cold wave of shyness when I recognized his intention.
“Wait,” I blurted and tried to pull free from his grip—but, as usual, it didn’t budge.
The look that lifted to my face was heated and narrow-eyed with a silent question.
“I bled.” My body grew tense in his hands, ready to flee from the embarrassing situation.
His dry expression conveyed he didn’t understand the point I was trying to make.
I grew flustered at the fact I even had to explain this. “It’s . . . gross.”
A second passed, and I thought he wanted to laugh, but the humor was contained by the intensity in his gaze. “As much as I wish otherwise, there is nothing about you I could find gross.”
The warmth that rushed to my face was consumed by fire when he went straight for the soreness around my opening, tracing it with his tongue. The pressure stung a little, but the heat of his mouth relieved it and sent a zap of pleasure to my toes.
Breath shaky, l readjusted my purchase on the couch, my thighs falling open at the next lap of his tongue, which he then slid inside of me. My head lolled back, a moan escaping my lips.
“Fuck, kotyonok. Dazhe tvoya kiska na vkus kak klubnika.”
I understood the gist of the statement given the mention of “cunt” and “strawberries.” The dirty Russian pushed all reservations to the wayside. Bracing one hand on the couch, I slid the other into his hair. I ran my blunt nails across his scalp and felt a shudder ghost down his back.
He was ignoring my clit, each lick making it throb in anticipation. Every time he came close to where I wanted him, I rocked my hips to make him get there, but he only drew his mouth back to my opening, which he soothed with undivided attention.
A fire brewed beneath my skin, sending a flush to every cell inside of me. My breath accelerated to little puffs of air, and the pressure in my core began to heat and build and blister. The flat of his tongue slid upward, so close to my clit I trembled, dying with need.
“Please,” I begged, my fingers tightening in his hair.
“Nyet.”
Ronan knew it would send me over the edge. I wanted to complain this wasn’t about him, but I didn’t have the words to do so—nor did I want this to stop yet.
Sliding a rough palm up my stomach, he squeezed a breast in his hand. I released a frustrated exhale as the ache inside swelled, desperate to be filled.
“More.”
Somehow, he understood what I needed and slid two fingers inside of me, immediately pressing against a spot that made my eyes roll back. The heat of his gaze warmed my face, a groan rumbling in his chest.
“Eta pizda byla sozdana dlya trakha.”
The pressure expanding, the sound of his voice—it was all too much. The final push that sent me over the edge was him sliding his tongue over my clit and sucking. Heat erupted, traveling down my spine like flames and sizzling in my blood before quieting to a languid hum. My core pulsed around his fingers. My clit grew so sensitive I tried to weakly shove his head away, but he took his time before stopping.
I vibrated everywhere in the aftermath, a quiet taking over and plunging me into sated darkness. I didn’t know how much time passed before he lifted me and carried me to my room, but I did know I fell asleep before my head hit my pillow.
