Chapter 28
Cecilia
When I wake up in the morning, I’m alone.
A handwritten note waits on my husband’s pillow, the letters bound in a chaotic yet stylish pattern, informing me to join him downstairs.
I pick it up, brushing the smooth paper with my thumb.
It smells like him, all smokey and rich, with an aroma of I saw you naked last night.
A smile creeps up on me, my cheeks tingling with the memory of where his mouth was, of the sheer dominance he wrapped tight around my body like a silken chain, turning me into a pool of submission.
God, how he devoured me, how he tortured me every time he said “one more”, and my body obeyed, shattering with yet another delirious release.
I didn’t even know I could do that. But he did—of course he did.
“I’ll sometimes give you much more than you believe you can handle.”
I sit upright, hiding my face in my palms and bringing my knees to my chest. How will I be able to face him in broad daylight without my face turning red? Because I enjoyed it, a little too much perhaps, and once he sees me at breakfast, he’ll know. He seems to know everything.
As I go into the bathroom to shower and brush my teeth, the memory stays with me.
Especially because I’m standing here, in the exact same spot he carried me to wash off all the wetness between my legs.
He kissed me too—slowly, desperately, his hand around my throat like a necklace as he pushed me into the shower wall and caged me.
I burned with him, and it was exhilarating.
Jesus. What will it feel like when he’s inside me?
Part of me is sulking over his decision to take things slow, while the other part is glad.
My pussy feels sore today, even though there was no stretch, no intrusion other than a finger or two.
I didn’t even bleed, that’s how careful he was.
I don’t expect this to be the case, however, when he finally takes me.
I show up at the bottom of the staircase twenty minutes later, wearing an oversized cashmere sweater that falls off one shoulder and a short woolen skirt with black tights underneath.
I’m growing fond of constructing my outfits in the morning and not just throwing on a random sundress like I used to.
Maybe it’s because I like the way his eyes hood when he lays them on me.
He’s alone in the dining room in our wing, seated at the head of the table, an espresso in one hand and his phone in the other.
A black suit hugs the taut muscles he used to pin me to the bed, his biceps flexing subtly under the material as he brings the cup to his mouth.
When he hears my unsure steps, he slowly lifts his gaze.
Our eyes meet, and I fill my chest with a long inhale.
He cocks his head in that familiar way of his, throwing me a smile that threatens to bring the apocalypse. “Good morning,” he says, his voice as stable and lilted as ever.
I clear my throat, the sound soft but necessary. My voice is still a little croaked from how much I moaned. “Good morning.” I stretch the sleeves of my sweater until they cover my palms. “I, um, got your note?”
He takes a sip of his coffee, pauses, then says, “Are you asking me?”
“What? Oh. No—I mean, I got your note.”
His answer is an outstretched hand, an invitation, so I slowly move around the table and take a seat.
In front of me, fluffy pancakes, sunny side up eggs, bacon, fruit, and fresh bread with butter and jam wait on the table, the air sweet.
The sun glimmers on the crystal tableware, creating small rainbows where the light disperses.
When I look up at him, even his eyes are a little brighter, watching me like he doesn’t know where to begin.
“How come you’re still here?” I ask as I sheepishly slide a pancake onto my plate then top it with fruit. “You’re rarely around for breakfast.”
“I rarely have a reason to be.”
I glance at him sideways. “You mean the food isn’t a good enough incentive?”
“Not the breakfast kind, no.”
Weird man. Breakfast food is the best. “What kind, then?”
A slow grin. “You.”
I barely swallow down my bite, my cheeks catching fire.
Under the table, my thighs press together, and I’m forced to squirm a little in my seat to find some sort of relief.
Only there’s no such thing, not when he’s drumming that inked index finger on the table, as if he’s brewing something in that twisted mind of his.
“Lastochka. Come here.”
That nickname again.
He summons me into his lap, and like a loyal pet, I want to push back my chair back and go. But I’m glad when my legs hesitate, if only for a few seconds, because I’m too focused on the throbbing between them.
You’ll take all that I give you.
He opens his arms, and I eventually get up, stepping into him and lowering myself to his lap.
He smells incredible—just like his note did.
I want to roam my hands beneath his suit jacket and touch him everywhere, feel those muscles flex under my skin as I kiss his neck and tug on that gorgeous black hair.
If only I had the courage…
“Sore?” he asks, brushing his nose against my neck then placing a kiss on my jaw. His lips are soft and warm, his breath carrying a hint of coffee and mint. His arm circles my waist, holding me in place.
I blink hard and fast, looking away. “A little.”
“Inside or out?”
“Mikhail...”
“Never be ashamed to tell me anything,” he murmurs. “I’m the only man who will ever know you like this. Every inch, every crevice of your body is mine. And this ring,” he takes my hand and brings it to his lips, kissing it, “attests to that.”
I roll my eyes, smiling. “I haven’t seen you, though. It’s not fair.”
“You will.” He picks me up like I weigh nothing and positions me to sit with my back against his chest in his lap. “When I want you to, you will see me.”
His knees spread, and my legs part with his. Butterflies come to life in my core and in my belly, and I look up at him, breathing hard. “What are you doing? Someone might come in.”
His hands slide up my thighs, disappearing under my skirt until I feel my tights strain. He pulls the fragile material until it rips, and suddenly, there’s a hole above my lace panties. Two holes, in fact, because he repeats the action with those as well.
“Mikhail…”
I’m exposed to his warm, dexterous hands and the hunger in his movements. When his finger presses against my slit, I melt into the sensation, a moan skittering up my throat. My arousal seeps out of me, making the circles he draws around my clit sound wet and desperate.
He picks up his coffee with his free hand and drinks, then places it back on the table and takes his phone.
Is he…? He’s texting someone. And when I make the effort to concentrate on the words, I can see it’s got nothing to do with what we’re doing here.
It’s just business. Just another casual morning for him, as if this—fingering me under the table—is as normal as breathing air.
As if I’m nothing but a doll in his arms, and he can do whatever he wants with me.
Something blooms inside me at the idea, cresting my pleasure as I surrender, leaning my head back on his shoulder and letting him fondle me.
He doesn’t enter me this time. It’s where I feel sore, and he must have realized, because he’s simply sliding his middle finger up and down my slit now, applying just the right amount of pressure, enough to send me over the edge eventually.
My orgasm sends me higher up in his lap.
I grip his forearms, squeezing tight as waves of pleasure assault my pussy, my voice a string of breathy moans and attempts to call out his name.
He doesn’t say anything, even now, as he keeps sipping that espresso and looking down at his phone, like I’ve become a part of his routine already.
When I’m finished, my heavy breath pushes out of my chest. I just sit here, in his lap, confined to his hard body with no clue about what he’s planning next. My gaze slides up to him, and he finally looks at me before placing a tender kiss on my temple.
“Are you all done?” he asks, but he knows I am. He just wants to hear me say it.
“Y-Yes,” I breathe out.
His lips brush the shell of my ear. “And what do you say?”
“I—uhm…” I shiver, his finger tapping my slippery slit in a slow, rhythmic cadence. “Thank you.”
A satisfied smile. “You’re very welcome, sweetheart.”
He removes his hand from my pussy, but when I shift to lift myself up from his lap, he holds me in place, snaking that arm back around my waist. He licks his finger then wipes it on a napkin before he leans in to pick up an empty plate and fill it with a bit of everything.
I sit and watch like the good girl he calls me, mesmerized by the sheer dominance of this powerful man and the way I so easily succumb to him.
I used to think his touch was devious before, when he ripped me from my home and brought me here. But now? Now, it’s the realest thing that’s ever been unleashed on my body.
He takes the cutlery, his hands working on either side of my body to cut into the food before he brings it to my lips.
Crispy bacon, soft fried egg, and a piece of pancake wait in front of me, stabbed onto the fork he holds with long fingers that smell of me.
I’m still stretched and bare for him under the table, and the idea of being fed after being fingered, of being held in the exact position he wants me for as long as he wants me, makes more wetness gather between my legs.
“Open for me,” he commands my lips.
And I do. I do, because this is when I finally realize my body stopped being mine.
It’s his body now. His rules. His playground.
And somehow, giving it to him feels easier than holding on.