Chapter 30
Chapter
Thirty
Lucy
Kirill returned with a plate of sectioned oranges and sliced apples. I felt guilty, but I wasn’t going to change who I was. I never ate fruit if I couldn’t eat it easily. That was why I stuck to berries and bananas.
I grinned sheepishly though when he sat beside me on the cushions I’d fixed on the floor. Did it make me feel giddy that he immediately picked up what I was putting down? Or maybe the heat from the hearth was making me feel like my whole body was on fire.
“Is this part of you monitoring my eating habits?”
“Consider it part of it.” He speared one of the apple slices and offered it to me and that was when it hit me that we’d come a long way since the cake tasting.
We’d had countless encounters around food.
But it wasn’t until that rooftop dining experience that we began having meaningful chats.
Our declared truce opened up many avenues of conversation that morphed into something else.
Something more. Something with a future.
Kirill’s eyes were far from icy, and it had nothing to do with the fire’s reflection in his gaze. I opened my mouth and daintily accepted the apple slice. “These are really sweet.”
“Organic and comes from one of our orchards.”
“You own farms?”
“Several up and down the East Coast. We have one for peaches down in Georgia.”
“We have a log cabin down there with an orchard as well,” I mused. “But I’ve never been down there.”
“City girl.”
“It’s not a bad thing,” I defended.
“I’ll make you love mountain life yet.”
“I never expected you to have lumberjack vibes. I mean, look at your house and staff. The car you drive.”
“I am many things, Lucy,” he drawled.
“Do you surf?”
“No.” He scowled. “Why? Do you like surfers?” I would have laughed, but his tone was terse.
“Not unless I’m at a beach.”
He put the plate down, leaned back, and turned to me. His face was getting more distant. “And pray tell. What happens when you’re at the beach, hmm?”
“I’m just in awe of those extreme surfers. When I was twenty-two, I went to Portugal.”
“The Nazaré wave.”
“Oh, you know that?”
He shrugged without saying yes or no. “And then you slept with a surfer.”
“I take the fifth,” I teased. I did. Before I could say another word, I was flat on my back and Kirill was on top of me, his hips wedged between my legs. I was wearing heather-gray sweatpants. I’d taken off its matching hoodie because it was really hot close to the fireplace.
His erection pressed along the center of my pussy, and he was rock hard.
With his face stoic and his eyes smoldering, a shiver raced from the top of my scalp to the tip of my toes.
“What?” I breathed.
“I hate,” he enunciated, “any man who was before me.”
“You say this now?” I asked incredulously. “You knew I wasn’t a virgin.”
“Funny thing is, I don’t care about the virgin part. I care that you’ve been intimate with them.”
Interesting enough, I understood him. Virginity could be lost riding a horse or a bicycle and, according to Mamma, some women don’t even bleed.
What did a flimsy membrane of tissue have to do with intimacy?
But the thought of Kirill being this close with another woman made me grit my teeth.
I was jealous. I’d never been the jealous type.
“Did you love any of them?” he asked.
My chin jutted up. “I did. And you?” My boyfriend in college, but it was more of an uncomplicated love.
“Never. Who?” he asked. “Who did you love?”
“You expect me to tell you with that murderous look on your face?” It was scary, really, how his minute expressions could be daunting, made more sinister with the shadow play from the fire. “It doesn’t matter. I’m married to you, and…”
He started circling his hips, and torturous sensations intensified. My clit felt swollen, and ready to explode.
“We’re too old for dry humping,” I gritted.
He laughed darkly. “Not dry humping, Lusenka, this is orgasm denial.” I pumped up my hips to rub myself harder, but he backed away. “Ah, ah…”
The bastard was edging me. I’d heard about this before. My cousins had hinted at something like this. And I usually covered my ears or told them to change the subject because I didn’t want to hear about their sex life.
He yanked me up and dragged me over so I was sitting against the couch. I squeezed my thighs together and rubbed them against each other. He smirked and crawled over me to grab the plate of fruit.
We were eating now?
“I’m going to hand-feed you,” he said. “If you drip all over my fingers, you’re going to lick it up. If the juice is all over you…” His voice roughened. “I’m going to lick you clean.”
I inhaled sharply, feeling very suffocated—in a good way. Was that even possible? A warm sphere enveloped us. He took his time, holding my eyes captivated and appearing in no hurry as he fed me. A far cry from the urgency of the first time we had sex and the shower encounter earlier.
When he fed me an orange slice, I deliberately bit it in the middle.
The juice trickled down the side of my mouth.
His eyes flared, singeing me with their intensity before his face came closer and, like he promised, he licked my mess.
He started at my jaw, and nibbled up from there, stopping at the edge of my mouth before he pulled back again.
We continued this game for a few more slices, the anticipation building between us, before he lowered the plate and put an apple slice partially in his mouth and fed it to me that way.
He watched me as I chewed, and when I swallowed it, he kissed me while simultaneously slipping his hand into my sweatpants, seeking the neediness between my legs. My cheeks heated some more because his fingers glided easily. He pulled back long enough to growl, “You’re soaked, Lusenka.”
He resumed kissing me. Gentle kisses that were coaxing, telling me what a good girl I was while the way his fingers ravaged me showed the opposite.
That I was a bad girl who craved to be finger-fucked to orgasm. But he continued to deny me.
I moaned into his mouth. “Get me there.”
He chuckled darkly, and that was when I saw the wicked glint in his eyes. He raised his head. “Who have you loved?”
Caught by surprise, my lust-addled brain tried to make sense of his question until I remembered I scoffed at it earlier.
“Kirill,” I whined. “Does it matter?”
“Tell me.”
“Why? You’ll only get more vindictive.” I squirmed at the mounting pressure in my clit. At this moment I would tell him anything.
“Who?” he growled.
“I loved my college boyfriend.”
He chuckled. “The environmentalist.”
“Yes,” I whispered.
“Was he filthy like this with you, Lusenka?” he rasped.
“Never. Kirill!” I cried in frustration. “Never. All right? Only you. And I loved him, but I was never in love with him.”
His brows pulled together. “What’s the difference?”
Two could play his game. “I’ll explain, but only if you make me come.” It didn’t take a genius to know that my husband had a possessive streak. This wasn’t about love. This was about ego.
He narrowed his eyes, and then his face disappeared.
I was yanked flat on my back and stripped of my sweatpants.
Without further hesitation, Kirill put his mouth on me and, just the way he speared his tongue and then sucked my clit, I shot off like a rocket.
I screamed. My feet tried to find purchase on his back, but he was in a frenzy devouring me.
When I couldn’t scream anymore, when I begged him to stop, he rose above me and removed my top until I was completely naked. Then slowly, and with measured action, he stripped off his clothes. He didn’t even wince at his injury when he pulled his shirt over his head.
Kirill’s focus was on me.
He fell on top of me and yanked my legs around him.
Inch by inch, he slid his cock inside me.
“Feel how hard I am for you?” he whispered.
I was slippery as hell, but his girth was still a lot to take in.
Finally, he was seated, I was locked in place, and he started to move.
Our connection, our dance of lust, was a roller coaster of fast and slow.
Feral and then gentle. It confused me, but it also explained our relationship.
The ebb of trust and then the flow of lust and, somewhere in between, an affection threaded so intricately with our past antagonism, it was so hard to tell where we fell on the spectrum of love and hate.
The rules had changed in our marriage, and we weren’t exactly on the same page. Or we refused to define it.
Kirill rocked my body slowly, and then he flipped me onto all fours before he gathered my wrists behind my back.
But he didn’t fuck me wildly as I expected from this position.
He was tender as he pumped in and out of me.
He was taking his time. Touching my back as he held my wrists captive.
Then he released my wrists and slid out of me again.
“I want this to last,” he grunted.
He sat against the couch and had me straddle him. We both groaned when I worked him into my pussy.
“Control the pace.”
“Are we going to fuck in every position?” I teased.
“Don’t say fuck.” His jaw tensing. “I’m close.”
He gathered my wrists again behind me. Without my hands, the only way I could ride him was to use my body against him as leverage. It made sense because I couldn’t grip his shoulders because of his injury.
“Do it, wife,” he prodded. “Fuck yourself on my cock.”
Oh, the indecent words leaving his mouth made me blush harder. My skin was on fire and every nerve ending was alive. It took a while for me to find my rhythm, but his praises drove me to a fevered pitch.
“That’s it, Lusenka.”
“Look at you. So glorious while taking my cock.”
“Good girl, that’s it. Go faster, baby.”
So I did. And even when he secured my wrists behind my back, I clenched around him as payback. A power exchange so addictive, I reveled in the way his cock grew bigger. Harder.
“Fuck!”