Chapter 17 Sima
SIMA
I wake up warm.
My eyes open to dim light bleeding around the curtains and the heavy weight of an arm slung over my waist. For a second, I can’t remember where I am. The sheets are too soft, the mattress too plush.
This isn’t my bed. This isn’t my apartment. And the creature spooning me from behind is definitely not the neighbor’s nosy cat.
Then everything clicks into place.
Oh.
Right.
I’m married now.
My breath hitches as I shift slightly, trying to ease out from under Petyr’s arm without waking him.
But his grip tightens immediately, forearm locking around my stomach, pulling me back into the hard line of his body.
Very hard, unless he came to bed packing firearms. My eyes go wide as I feel his perhaps-a-handgun pressed against the curve of my ass.
Nope. Not a handgun. Definitely a rifle at least.
My first instinct is to freeze.
My second is to be annoyed that, despite all logic and self-preservation, my body is very much on board with this… not-a-gun situation. The heat pools low in my belly before I can stop it.
Great. Fan-fucking-tastic. Amazing notes for my future therapist.
I wiggle into Petyr’s grip, but then a low, gravelly voice stops me. “Trying to sneak off again, lisichka?”
My breath stutters. “Not at all. I was just gonna go and, um—do my morning yoga. Say hello to the sun and whatnot.”
“The sun.”
“Yep.” I do not sound convincing. “Wouldn’t want to be rude.”
“Hm.” Clearly, Petyr doesn’t share my concern with manners, because his grip doesn’t ease up in the least.
That’s when I feel it.
His hand, sliding over my stomach.
Oh, no.
Oh, no, no, no—
“We still haven’t had our wedding night,” he murmurs, his lips grazing the shell of my ear.
I should tell him to stop. I should roll away, stick an elbow between his ribs, do anything. Instead, when his fingers splay possessively over my belly, I remain exactly where I am.
Same when they tease lower.
And lower.
And lower.
“Blyat’,” he curses against my ear. I know exactly what just made him slip into Russian for that: He found out I’m not wearing panties.
Which, if you really think about it, is entirely his own fault. Who kidnaps a woman without even providing a change of undies?
“You little tease.”
“Thought I was a fox,” I manage to blurt out.
“That, too.”
Before I can come up with a snarky reply, he’s pushing the hem of my shirt—his shirt, the one I pilfered to sleep in—up over my hips. I suck in a breath as his hand glides down, over my thigh, then between my legs.
“So wet for me already,” he groans. “So fucking eager.”
“Shut up,” I breathe, but it comes out embarrassingly breathless.
He rolls me onto my back and settles between my legs. His mouth follows the trail of heat he left behind: neck, collarbone, sternum, the swell of my breasts. I whimper when his lips close around my nipple. His tongue flicks and my hips lift up without my permission to beg for more.
“Beautiful,” he mutters against my skin. He drags his mouth lower and lower. His breath ghosts over my sensitive inner thigh. “Absolutely fucking gorgeous.”
My hands claw at the sheets.
And then his tongue is on me, and I swear my soul leaves my body.
He doesn’t ease in. Instead, he dives into eating me out, licking a dripping path from my seam to my clit. My cheeks flood with embarrassment. It’s so filthy, my rational mind is screaming at me to push him away.
But the rest of me is screaming something else, and right now, that part is louder.
I throw myself back into the pillows. My hips are squirming into Petyr’s mouth like it’s the only worthwhile place to be. But the more I move, the tighter his grip grows, pinning me to the bed whether I like it or not.
Reminding myself that this man is a stranger—the literal enemy—is useless. It just feels too good to care.
“God, Petyr…” I gasp, and then immediately go hot with shame for it.
He hums in response. The vibration sends another wave of sensation through me. Every flick of his tongue coils something deeper and tighter in my core. My thighs are trembling, hands fisted in the sheets, and I can’t tell if I’m pulling away or begging for more.
He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t slow down, not even a bit. Just keeps going with relentless focus, dragging me to the edge and then cruelly keeping me there.
I need him to push me over, but I don’t know how to ask for that. I’ve never been in the situation to ask.
“Petyr.” It sounds so shameful, so filthy, his name spoken like that. “Please…”
The groan he lets out against my pussy is nearly animal.
My hand finds his hair. I’m so past shame, it’s all I can do to sink my nails into his scalp and drag him closer, keep him where I need him. I thought Petyr would mind, but he only groans deeper into me, latching onto my clit like it’s the only thing he ever wants to taste.
Then he scrapes me with his teeth, and I’m gone.
“Petyr!” I shatter, crying out his name.
My whole body tightens, then snaps. The pleasure wrings me dry, leaves me gasping and writhing and riding Petyr’s face with shameless abandon. The more I let myself go, the harder Petyr kisses into me, hot and slick and ravenous.
When the world finally rights itself again, I cover my face with my hands and whimper a timid, “Fuck.”
I can feel Petyr smirk against my thigh. “That’s not how we say, ‘Thank you.’”
“Ugh.” I peek at him through my fingers. “I liked it better when you were using your mouth the other way.”
“What a coincidence. So did I.”
He rises slowly, licking his lips. My face catches fire. I have no idea if this man has ever cooked breakfast in his life, but right now, my cheeks could serve as a perfect hot plate for a couple of well-done eggs.
He leans in. I let him.
It’s a deep, nasty kiss. I can taste myself on his tongue, and God, that shouldn’t be nearly as hot as it is. He grabs my face with both hands, angles it just right to do whatever he wants with it, like I’m his to rearrange and play with.
When we part, I’m breathless again. I can feel the hard outline of his cock through the fabric of his shirt, pressed up against my thigh.
I wet my lips, wondering what it’ll feel like inside me. If it will hurt, or…
Or, as it turns out, nothing.
Because Petyr’s rising, leaving me behind again.
“Wait.” I sit up. “You’re not—you’re not leaving, are you?”
He glances down at me, his expression unreadable.
Right. Of course. No need to act like a baby about it. That’s not the kind of baby he wants, anyway, is it? Though he’ll really need to stick it in at some point if he—
“Relax.” A big, strong hand tips up my chin. “I’m not done with you yet. But you said you’ve never done this before, and I’m not going to break you just because it’s quicker that way.”
Oh. That’s actually kind of… nice? Sweet, in a really fucked-up sort of way?
“Don’t get ideas,” he follows up. “It’s for the sake of practicality. You shouldn’t expect flowers and chocolates from me.”
Aaand he’s already ruined it.
“Wasn’t going to,” I mutter.
Still, the tight ball of uncertainty in my chest loosens a little. Petyr may be an arrogant, manipulative jackass, but maybe he isn’t quite the monster I’d built up in my head.
A middle ground between romance and baby factory treatment is better than nothing, I suppose.
He lingers at the edge of the bed for a moment, watching me with an expression that’s difficult to decipher. It makes heat flare inside me again, in all the wrong places.
Then his gaze flicks to my T-shirt and he smirks. “Helped yourself to my closet, I see.”
“If you don’t want your drawers to be ransacked, then next time, stop by Walmart on your way to kidnapping a bride.” I yank the hem down to mid-thigh. “Feel free to keep your flowers and chocolates, but a pair of underwear would be nice.”
“Anything else?”
“Clothes. Toiletries. Basic human dignity. You know, every newlywed girl’s dream.” I stand, still a little jelly-kneed by Petyr’s—ahem—treatment earlier. “Come to think of it, don’t bother with Walmart. I’ll just swing by my place and pack a bag.”
“Your place,” he echoes, as if I’ve just said something supremely dumb.
“Yes. My apartment. My humble abode. The place I pay a stranger to let me use for shelter. You’re familiar with the concept of ‘rent,’ right?”
The way he scowls tells me that he may not be, after all. “I’ll send someone,” he says.
I shoot him a look. “Absolutely not. The last thing I need is one of your goons to go rummaging through my panty drawers.”
“You mean, like you did to me.”
“That was— Okay, fine, look, I’ll give back your stupid shirt.” I cross my arms, mirroring his stance. Two can play at the game of being pissed-off. “As soon as I get my hands on one of mine.”
He holds my stare for a long moment. “Fine,” he bites out eventually. “But I’m taking you. And you’ll make it quick.”
I don’t like the annoyed way he says it, but I should probably grab this chance before it’s gone forever. “Deal,” I say. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to steal some more of your clothes and shower.”
That brings a hint of smugness back to his face. “Be my guest.”
He throws open his closet door. As I pass him by to ransack his clothes, he leans into my ear and whispers, “By the way, feel free to keep the shirt. It looks better on you than it ever did on me.”
And with that, he’s gone.