Chapter 26 VICTORIA
VICTORIA
I face the polo field, hands gripping the balcony rail, trying to steady my breathing.
The sunlight is warm on my skin. Below, riders are taking their positions, horses stamping and tossing their heads. The crowd settles into anticipation, conversations dying down as the match prepares to begin.
Behind me, Zakhar's presence is a wall of heat. His body presses close enough that I can feel him without him actually touching me yet. Close enough that the space between us hums with electricity. Close enough that anticipation makes my skin prickle and my pulse race.
Then his hands find the hem of my dress. Start gathering the fabric slowly, deliberately, bunching it up in his fists with patient, methodical movements.
My breath catches. My fingers tighten on the railing.
"Someone might see," I manage, voice not quite steady. The balcony wall comes up high enough to hide most of us from view, but not completely. Anyone who looked up at the right angle might catch a glimpse.
"With us," he murmurs against my ear, his breath hot against my skin, "you'll need to get used to being watched."
The words send a shiver through me that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with dark, forbidden arousal.
Being shared between the three men. Being desired so openly, so completely, that privacy becomes optional.
That boundaries dissolve because they want me enough to stake their claims regardless of who might see.
Heat pools low in my belly, slick and urgent.
Below us, the match is starting. Riders thunder across the field in tight formation, mallets swinging in precise arcs.
The crack of wood against the ball echoes up to our balcony.
The crowd roars their approval. The sun beats down, painting everything in shades of summer brilliance that feels surreal against what's happening in this shadowed corner.
Zakhar's hand slides between my thighs with confident purpose. Finds the edge of my underwear with unerring accuracy. Slips beneath the delicate fabric with the confidence of a man who knows exactly what he's doing.
His finger finds my clit immediately. Circles it once with perfect pressure. Twice. Building sensation with devastating precision, each touch calculated to drive me higher.
At the same time, I feel his erection grinding against my ass. Hard. Insistent. The thick length of him pressing through his pants, creating friction that makes me bite my lip to keep from making a sound that would carry across the open air.
"You're already wet," he says, voice rough with approval and desire. "Have you been thinking about this? About me bending you over somewhere public and making you come where anyone could see?"
I can't answer. Can barely breathe with his finger working me in slow, torturous circles while the world continues below us, oblivious to what's happening in the shadows of the private balcony. My hips move without permission, seeking more pressure, more friction, more of everything he's offering.
His free hand slides up my body with aching slowness.
Traces my waist, my ribs, the curve of my breast. Cups me through the dress, and even through the layers of fabric I feel the heat of his palm like a brand.
His thumb finds my nipple through the material, circling it in perfect rhythm with his other hand between my legs.
The dual sensation makes my knees weak.
"You need to be quiet," he murmurs against my neck, his lips brushing the sensitive spot just below my ear.
The thought alone nearly undoes me. The idea of having to muffle my pleasure. Of biting back sounds while people mill around below us, watching horses and not knowing what's happening just above their heads.
His finger increases pressure on my clit. His thumb rolls my nipple with just enough force to toe the line between pleasure and pain. His cock grinds harder against me, creating a rhythm that matches the thundering hoofbeats below.
I feel the orgasm building. Tightening low in my belly like a coiled spring. Spreading outward in waves of heat that make my toes curl in my shoes and my breath come in short, desperate gasps.
"Zakhar, I'm—" The words barely make it past my lips.
"Hold it." His command is absolute. Brooking no argument. "You don't come until one of the teams scores."
"What?" The word comes out strangled.
"You heard me." His finger increases pressure but doesn't change rhythm, maintaining that maddening circular motion that's driving me insane. "Hold it. Watch the game. Wait for the goal."
It's torture. Exquisite, devastating torture that makes every nerve ending in my body scream for release.
I grip the railing tighter, knuckles going white against the metal. Try to focus on the match below even though every cell in my body is focused on the sensation of his hands on me, in me, working me toward an edge I'm not allowed to fall over.
The riders chase the ball across the field in a blur of color and motion.
White uniforms. Brown horses. Green grass.
Mallets swing through the air with lethal precision.
Horses wheel and charge with terrifying speed and grace.
The crowd noise rises and falls with each near-miss, each brilliant save, each moment when it looks like someone might score but doesn't.
Zakhar doesn't stop. His finger keeps that maddening rhythm on my clit, varying pressure just enough to keep me right on the edge but never quite pushing me over.
His cock continues grinding against me, the friction delicious and frustrating in equal measure.
His mouth finds my neck, teeth grazing sensitive skin, adding another layer of sensation to an already overwhelming experience.
"That's it," he whispers, voice dark with satisfaction. "Hold it for me. Show me how good you can be."
My thighs tremble with the effort of standing upright.
My body is wound so tight I think I might shatter into a thousand pieces.
The pressure builds and builds until I can't tell where pleasure ends and pain begins, until breathing becomes a conscious effort, until the world narrows to nothing but his hands and the desperate need for release.
A rider breaks away from the pack. Charges down the field with singular focus. Lines up the shot with professional precision. The mallet swings back.
I hold my breath.
The mallet connects with the ball with a crack that echoes across the field. The ball sails through the air in a perfect arc. Passes between the goalposts.
The crowd erupts in celebration. Cheers and applause thunder up to our balcony.
"Come," Zakhar orders against my ear.
I come with a cry that gets lost in the roar of celebration. The orgasm crashes through me in waves that seem endless, and Zakhar's hand doesn't stop, working me through every pulse and shudder until I'm gasping against the railing, my entire body shaking with the force of it.
"Good girl," he praises, voice rough with approval and barely restrained desire. "So fucking perfect. Look how beautifully you fall apart for me."
I hear the sound of his zipper. Feel him moving behind me. The rustle of fabric. The blunt pressure of his cock against my entrance, hot and hard and demanding.
Then he pushes in. Just the tip. Shallow. Discreet enough that anyone glancing up would see nothing unusual. Just a couple standing close together at the balcony railing, watching the match like hundreds of other spectators.
But I feel him everywhere. The stretch. The fullness even from just this shallow penetration. The way he fills me with just these careful thrusts that somehow hit every nerve ending while looking completely innocent to casual observation.
"Watch the game," he murmurs, his hands settling on my hips with possessive weight. "We're not done yet."
He moves inside me with slow, controlled motions. In. Out. Never deep enough to be obvious.
It's maddening. Having him inside me but not fully. Feeling pleasure building again but unable to chase it properly. Being filled but not enough. Stretched but not satisfied.
My hands grip the railing so hard my fingers ache. My body wants to push back against him, to take him deeper, but I force myself to stay still. To accept what he's giving me and wait for permission for more.
Below us, the match continues. Back and forth. The ball moving between teams with dizzying speed. Players colliding and separating. Horses wheeling in tight circles. The crowd reacting to every brilliant play with enthusiasm that provides perfect cover for the small sounds escaping my throat.
Zakhar's hands grip my hips harder. His breathing grows heavier against my neck, hot puffs of air that make me shiver. But his rhythm stays controlled. Shallow. Torturous. Every thrust a promise of more that he's deliberately withholding.
"Please," I breathe, the word barely audible over the noise of the match.
"Not yet." His voice is strained now, control fraying at the edges. "Wait for the next goal. Show me you can be patient."
I watch the field through a haze of need. Every shallow thrust winds me tighter. Every controlled motion makes me want to scream with frustration. My body is a live wire, every nerve ending firing, pleasure building in waves that have nowhere to break.
The game intensifies. The riders clash in the center of the field, mallets swinging in a blur of motion. A player breaks free from the tangle of horses and men. Charges toward the goal with single-minded determination. Lines up the shot.
I stop breathing. My entire body tenses.
The mallet connects. The ball sails through the air. Passes between the posts.
The crowd roars again, louder this time.
Zakhar thrusts deep, finally, burying himself completely inside me, and I cry out as the orgasm rips through me. Stronger than the first. More intense. Wave after wave of pleasure so acute it borders on pain.
We stand there, both breathing hard, his forehead pressed against my shoulder, his body still joined with mine. The world slowly comes back into focus. The crowd noise. The horses. The sunlight warm on our skin.
He pulls out slowly. Steps back to give me space to breathe and collect myself.
I take a moment to steady my breathing. To smooth my dress back into place. To make sure my appearance doesn't scream what we just did.
"Your turn," I say, voice steadier than I expected.
His eyebrow raises.
"Now you get to root for a team to score." I sink down to my haunches slowly, maintaining eye contact the entire time, watching his expression shift from confusion to understanding to raw hunger. "Hands on the railing."
Understanding crosses his face. Followed immediately by desire so intense it makes my breath catch.
He positions himself facing the field, hands gripping the railing like I ordered. His cock is still hard, still glistening with evidence of what we just did, and the sight of him like this, following my command, sends a thrill of power through me.
I take him into my mouth without preamble.
The taste is salt and sex and him. Complex and masculine and unexpectedly intoxicating. I start slow, just the tip, swirling my tongue around the head in lazy circles while my hand wraps around the base to stroke what I can't yet reach.
Above me, I hear his breath catch. Feel his thighs tense under my free hand.
His hand moves toward my head, instinct taking over, wanting to guide or control or just touch.
"Uh uh," I say, pulling back slightly to meet his eyes. "Hands stay on the railing."
He groans but obeys. His knuckles go white gripping the metal, and I can see the effort it takes him to maintain that position instead of touching me the way he clearly wants to.
I reward his obedience by taking him deeper.
I hollow my cheeks, create suction, use my tongue along the underside where I can feel his pulse hammering. Find the rhythm that makes his breathing turn ragged and his hips flex forward despite his attempts at control.
"Victoria," he breathes in warning.
I can hear the match continuing below. The thunder of hooves on packed earth.
The crack of mallets against the ball. The rise and fall of the crowd reacting to plays I can't see and don't care about.
All that matters is the man above me, the taste of him on my tongue, the way his body responds to every movement I make.
I increase my pace. Take him deeper, letting him feel the back of my throat. My free hand slides up to cup his balls, rolling them gently, feeling how tight they've drawn up against his body.
His whole body goes rigid. Every muscle locks. His breathing stops entirely for a heartbeat.
"Fuck," he grits out through clenched teeth. "I'm going to—"
I pull slightly on his balls. Not hard. Just enough pressure to send him over the edge.
He comes with a sound that's half groan, half curse, spilling hot into my mouth. I swallow everything he gives me, working him through the aftershocks with my tongue and hand until he's trembling above me, his grip on the railing the only thing keeping him upright.
When I finally pull away, I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and look up at him.
He's staring down at me with an expression I've never seen before. Awe. Vulnerability. Something that looks dangerously like love mixed with wonder.
I rise slowly, still smiling, feeling powerful and desired and completely in control for the first time in weeks. "You know... I think I finally understand the appeal of polo."