Chapter Nine The Performer #3
“Tell me more,” he said, slipping his tongue between again, probing a little deeper as he ran it through, then sucking gently on my nerves. His tongue circled the spot, teasing me.
“It’s warm,” I breathed. “Arkady . . .”
His free hand moved between my legs, resting on my thigh as he traced around the place he was teasing.
His fingers paired with his tongue somehow made me panic.
It seemed both were experienced, though I wasn’t sure how to feel about that.
His middle and fourth fingers pressed against me, then spread outward, exposing me more, if that was even possible.
Then, his tongue dipped in and out, never going farther than what I instructed, only cleaning the peach flavor from my skin.
“Put it in,” I blurted.
His eyes shot up, and he smirked as the words registered.
“I want . . . it inside.” I winced.
“You’re getting good at making demands,” he teased. “Be specific.”
“Hands”—my face felt like it was beside a furnace—“y-your hands.”
He carefully pressed a single finger inside, hot against my skin.
“Not just one.”
“Another? Moving a bit fast, aren’t we?”
“Forget it, then!” I argued.
“I’m joking.” He chuckled. He must have felt my thigh stiffen. He inserted a second finger, his hand palm up now, pushing in and out, testing the metaphorical waters.
I kept my breathing steady, unable to watch.
“Petronille.”
I struggled to meet his gaze like I had to pry my eyes from whatever I was focusing on in the distance in order to be present.
He stood up on his knees, putting pressure on his fingers as he whispered against my neck, “Tell me what you want, or trust me to choose for you.”
“Choose for me,” I said hastily. “I don’t want to make any more decisions.”
He nodded in understanding, lowering his face back down between my legs. As he moved his fingers inside me, he pushed all the way in to curl them upward, massaging the inside as he sucked on the outside, playing with every sweet, sensitive spot.
I moaned, immediately covering my mouth.
He chuckled as he continued, his warm mouth against my skin.
I could confirm one thing: Lorelei’s speculations were correct; he was good with his hands.
“Arkady,” I breathed, trying to lean up but ultimately deciding to slump farther back, pushing my hips toward him.
He continued to tease me, to play with me like he wanted, like I wanted.
I began to move my hips, rolling them in rhythm with his pace, his intensity. I reached for him, only able to grab his hair to pull him closer, to feel him more, to keep going.
The knot in my stomach was tightening, the pressure was building faster, festering.
Never had I been able to feel like this with a man, only when I did it on my own.
Even then it had felt wrong. And this was worse, in a selfish kind of way.
If I just closed my eyes, there was no audience, but there was also the thrill of it not being by my own hands.
He sucked hard, picking up his pace as his fingers moved, smoothing down the inside and pushing on every sensitive place he could find. Every time he heard a new noise from me, he just kept going, chasing the reaction, the validation that came from pleasuring another.
Suddenly and all at once, the tension was released, and I came while his mouth and tongue were dedicated only to me. I wondered if he could feel it, the climax, le petit mort.
My thigh tensed before relaxing against his shoulder, then slipped off as I gathered myself. Arkady didn’t seem to mind; he licked his bottom lip before wiping with the back of his hand, amusing himself with not only my reaction but how I tasted as well.
I glanced down at him, those hazel eyes looking hungry despite the conquest.
“What is it now?”
He shook his head. “Just watching.”
“Are you some sort of voyeur?”
“If I am a voyeur, then you are the exhibitionist.” He stood and leaned over me in the chair. “Look at you, it’s nice to see the little snail emerge from her shell.”
“Stop looking at me.” I covered my face.
“You did well.” He pulled my wrists from my face. “You have a lot to learn, Mrs. Kameneva.”
I rolled my eyes, refusing to look at him.
He tipped my face back, cupping it as he kissed me. He tasted like peaches. I leaned up, savoring the kiss before he pulled away.
He grabbed the knife and gathered the half-eaten fruit, taking a bite out of one.
“Arkady?” I spoke up, my voice coming out shakier than intended.
He looked my way, waiting for my request.
“Will you sleep with me tonight?”
“No,” he answered, “not yet.”
“Why?”
He shook his head as he continued to clean up, like my request was something of the childish sort.
“Arkady,” I said again, more stern as I stood from my seat.
“Yes?”
“Come to bed with me. You got your fun, now I wish to sleep accompanied. I am not a toy to use and forget.”
A slow grin crawled across his face as he looked back at me. “There it is. She is finally direct with what she wants.”
I frowned at him. “Is that all it took?”
“I wasn’t going to crawl into bed with a stranger who didn’t want me there.”
I glanced off to think about it for a moment, and I suppose it made sense to me. I just didn’t think it would be as simple as asking—or rather, demanding.