Chapter 7
Natasha
Had it been five minutes? Dmitri’s face was buried between my legs, and sucking on my pussy like it was the best thing he’s ever tasted. He smacked his lips, moaned, and slurped my juices up, and the crude sounds made me even hornier. Then he dipped his tongue inside and fucked me with it, too.
Straddling his face, his arms wrapped around my thighs, and he held me in place.
I couldn’t move or go anywhere while he lapped at me.
I’d tried to bend over to put him into my mouth, but I couldn’t from the way he held me.
So, I put my hands on his chest to hold me up and accepted that my only job was to feed him right now.
I bounced a bit to give me the friction I craved, and Dmitri moaned deeply, smacking my thighs. His dick jerked, and that made him wilder below. So I did it again... and again… Until I realized that I was coming again. Then it was too late to stop. I needed more.
“Dmitri!” I screamed as I came again.
Quickly, he slid from beneath me and he was on his knees, jerking his glistening shaft.
Trying to catch my breath, I crawled over and licked the tip to catch his pre-cum.
He pulled my head closer, and I sucked him into my mouth.
I looked up to catch his head roll back.
Damn, he looks amazing. I continued watching him as I pleased him, twirling my tongue, then swallowing him to the back of my throat.
“Princess…” he groaned. “Yes, good girl. Show me how it's done.”
I continued until his thrusts became shallow, and I knew he was close to coming. Then he pushed me on the bed on all four and entered me from behind. Gripping my shoulders, he pulled me into every earth shattering thrust. Then he came inside me again.
I followed behind him, so turned on that it hurt. I came while he massaged my clit and continued bucking inside me.
We collapsed on the bed, and Dmitri pulled me into his arms. “Sleep now, princess.”
I nodded because I was exhausted, and I had a feeling that I would need the rest.
Twice Dmitri woke me up, penetrating me.
Each time he finished inside me. Both times he made me come, too.
Now, I was sitting on the side of the bed trying to make it to the bathroom, but my legs were jello, and I had no idea how I was going to make it.
Twice he broke me apart with his mouth, his hands, his body—dragging orgasms out of me like it was his right, like my pleasure was something he owned and collected.
“What’s wrong, princess?” he grumbled.
“Nothing, per se.” I swallowed, wincing at the ache between my thighs. “I just need to go to the bathroom.”
“Then go.”
“My legs…”
Dmitri chuckled—low and wicked—and then I heard movement behind me. He padded over to me and lifted me from the bed like I weighed nothing.
“I can walk!” I protested, smacking his shoulder.
“Not from what I can tell.” He kissed my forehead and walked into the bathroom.
He sat me on the toilet like I was something delicate.
Then walked to the other side of the room where he began running water into a tub.
The tub faucets roared to life. Hot steam curled upward. My eyes drifted to him in the mirror.
Bare. Broad-backed. Covered in faint red crescents from my nails. He looked like sin sculpted into a man.
I cleared my throat. “A bath?”
“You need it,” he said without turning around. “And I want you clean before I touch you again.”
I froze, heat pooling low in my stomach.
“Again?” My voice cracked.
He finally faced me. The look he gave me was pure possession—dark, heavy, certain.
“Princess,” he said, stepping closer, voice dropping to a dangerous rumble, “I didn’t spend seven years starving to stop after one night.”
The bath filled behind him, water steaming, and he leaned his hip against the counter, arms crossing over his chest as he looked at me—naked, sore, sitting on his toilet because I literally couldn’t walk.
His lips twitched. “Finish in there,” he murmured. “Then I’m bathing you. And after that…” His gaze dragged over my body with slow, devouring intent. “…I’ll decide if you get any rest.”
My breath hitched. Because I knew. Dmitri wasn’t done with me. Not even close.
I finished on the toilet, my face was still hot with embarrassment even though Dmitri didn’t treat it like anything but normal.
He didn’t rush me. Didn’t look away either.
Just stood there like a dark sentinel, waiting.
When I was done, he lifted me again—because my legs really weren’t going to cooperate—and lowered me into the steaming bath.
The moment my body hit the water, a broken sound escaped me.
“Ah—God…”
The heat seeped into my muscles, into every place he had taken me, into the soreness that throbbed deep and insistent. Goosebumps rose across my skin even as the warmth enveloped me. Dmitri knelt beside the tub and watched my face like he was memorizing each reaction.
“That feel better?” he murmured.
“Yes,” I whispered, sinking down until the water kissed my collarbones. “It feels so good.”
He dipped a bowl into the water and poured it slowly over my shoulders, over my chest, over the tops of my breasts—deliberate, reverent, like he was washing something precious.
“Good,” he said, his voice thickening. “You deserve it.”
I blinked at him. “You’re being sweet.”
He huffed a dark laugh. “Don’t confuse this with sweet, princess. I’m taking care of what’s mine.”
My stomach flipped.
When he finished washing me—hair, neck, shoulders, arms, legs—he lifted me again. Wrapped me in a thick towel. Carried me back to the bed like a man transporting something sacred. And I let him. Because I couldn’t do anything else. Because I didn’t want to.
He laid me down gently, poured oil onto my skin, and massaged me from head to toe.
Dmitri worked my muscles until they hummed, and my eyes became so heavy that I drifted to sleep.
I faintly remember him tucking the blankets around me, and pressed a kiss to my temple before disappearing from the room.
I must’ve drifted off again because the next thing I smelled was food. Warm. Savory. Mouthwatering.
My eyes cracked open. Dmitri was coming toward the bed with a tray.
Breakfast in bed. I moved to sit up, and he put the tray on the table before coming over and putting pillows behind me for support.
Then he set the tray across my lap and sat beside me, one leg on the mattress, one on the floor, leaning close enough that his heat seeped into me.
There were eggs—soft and creamy—toast, fruit, avocado, yogurt, and a glass of water.
“Let’s get you fed,” he said simply.
“I can feed myself,” I murmured.
He gave me one slow, unimpressed blink. “I didn’t ask.”
Then he cut a piece of toast, dipped it into the eggs, and held it near my mouth.
My cheeks warmed. I felt my pride war with the melting feeling inside my chest. But he waited. He was patient and so sure. So, I opened my mouth. He slid the bite between my lips, watching me like my chewing was erotic.
“Good girl,” he murmured.
Heat shot through me so fast I choked on a breath.
He smirked, grabbed a berry, and held it up.
“Again.”
I opened my mouth without thinking that time.
He fed me slowly. Deliberately. Like each bite belonged to him first. Like I was something to savor. Between bites, he brushed hair from my face, stroked his knuckle down my jaw, murmured little praises that made my stomach tighten.
My body was still wrecked. Still sore. Still his.
And he acted like carrying me, bathing me, feeding me wasn’t kindness—wasn’t romance—wasn’t softness.
It was possession. And God help me. I didn’t hate it.
In fact, it was making me view Dmitri in an entirely different light.
After I was finished, I fell back asleep. Too tired to fight the pull.
I woke to voices. Low, hushed, too close.
For a moment, I didn’t recognize the ceiling above me. Or the scent on the sheets. Or the thick ache tugging deep between my thighs. Then everything rushed back—heat, desperation, Dmitri’s mouth, his hands —
I sucked in a breath.
God. My body felt... wrecked. In ways I’d expected and in ways I definitely hadn’t. My neck protested when I tried to turn it. My right shoulder throbbed sharply, a pinpoint of pain that hadn’t been there last night. Or maybe I’d been too distracted to notice it.
The voices outside my room dipped for a moment, then rose again. A door shut. Footsteps. Then a knock.
“Natasha.” Dmitri’s voice—low, controlled, but careful. “I’m coming in.”
I didn’t even get a chance to answer before the door cracked open and he stepped inside, filling the space like a storm dressed in a T-shirt and joggers. His eyes swept over me instantly—assessing, checking, cataloging.
His brow pinched. “You’re hurting.” It wasn’t a question.
I swallowed. “I’m just sore. It’s—”
“No.” He shook his head, jaw tight. “Some of that is me. But some isn’t.” He exhaled, frustrated at himself, at the situation—I couldn’t tell. “I noticed a few tender spots when I massaged you last night. Your shoulder especially. I didn’t like how you reacted when I touched it.”
I blinked. “You massaged me?”
“Yes.” His expression darkened. “You were out of it, little one. You needed it.”
Heat flashed through me for reasons that had nothing to do with arousal. Before I could ask anything, he continued.
“I called someone. A doctor. She’s already here.”
“She?” I echoed.
“Of course she.” His stare hardened at the implication that he’d bring a man anywhere near me right now. “She needs to check your shoulder and neck. Make sure nothing from the accident caused real harm.”
My stomach tightened. “Is it that serious?”
“I don’t know.” He didn’t soften the truth. “And I’m not guessing with your health.”
Another knock sounded lightly on the doorframe.
A woman stepped halfway inside—mid-forties, dark curls pulled back, wearing scrubs and a steady, reassuring expression. She gave me a polite smile.