13. Chapter 13
13
Konstantin
F uck.
Rational thought tells me to walk in there and tell her to get the fuck out. That’s the responsible thing to do. The sane thing. But another part of me—the part currently engaged in an all-out war with my self-respect—is arguing that I should sit my ass down and let the situation play itself out.
Maybe she’ll get out on her own. Maybe I won’t have to do anything at all. Maybe—
A shadow moves behind the frosted glass.
Blyad.
I grab the bottle, pour another shot, and down it, letting the burn distract me. But then my mind, that treacherous bastard, starts filling in the gaps. The slope of her neck. The curve of her hip. The way steam clings to skin.
I slam the glass down harder than necessary. Another shot. Faster this time.
The second shot barely reaches my throat when the bathroom door swings open.
And there she is.
I still haven’t swallowed.
“Oh God,” she groans, staring at my portrait with an intensity that makes me forget how to swallow. “I’m giving him an accent. Why am I giving him an accent? And why is it working?”
Cognac goes down the wrong way. I press my fist against my mouth, choking silently. She’s… what? Giving me an accent?
I blink. Did I finally drink myself into oblivion? Because I can’t believe what the fuck I’m hearing.
Then, as if the universe decides I haven’t been tested enough, she lets go of the towel. The glass nearly slips from my grip as it hits the floor, cognac sloshing dangerously close to the rim. She sinks into my mattress with a sound that makes my fingers tighten around the crystal until I’m half-convinced it’ll shatter.
Naked. She’s completely naked. Lying on my five-hundred-thread-count sheets.
Christ, I can feel my cock stir at the sight, hardening against my zipper. It’s begging me to let it out, to take what it wants.
I know she can’t see me, but I hold my breath, a futile attempt to regain control. I watch her as she starts to circle her perky nipple with her green toy, and Jesus, a low groan almost escapes my clenched throat. I try—hard—to look away, but my gaze is locked, ensnared. She’s lost in some fantasy, most likely imagining me, as her fingers flick faster and faster over her own nipple, her hips undulating like waves. My mind betrays me, conjuring images of my tongue tracing her clit, of my fingers plunging into her wetness. I’m utterly, irrevocably stuck in this moment, engulfed by the scene and the unbearable, consuming need.
Blyad.
Thrown into a vortex of primal urges, my mind reels, careening into carnal desire.
Then she casts a smoldering glance at my portrait, her tongue flicking out to moisten her full lips. Her hand disappears from sight, but I can imagine, so vividly, where it’s heading. My cock throbs with need.
Then, she breathes, “I’m dripping.”
Fuck me.
My control is hanging by a thread, a thin strand of sanity that’s about to snap at any moment. I clench my teeth so hard I might crack a molar, my fist clenching in a death grip. Every fiber in my being screams at me to whip out my cock and take matters into my own hands, to work off this pent-up tension.
Suka.
I swear my cock has never been this rigid, this needy, this close to breaking its way out on its own. But no, I’m not some horny-ass teenager. I’ve got to keep my cool, rein in my raging boner before it takes over.
She tilts her head back, eyes on the ceiling, lips parting just enough to let the words slip free.
“I’ve created a monster,” she mutters, like she’s speaking to the fucking gods. “A sexy, irresistible monster.”
I go still.
Sexy. Irresistible. The words hit like a live wire, crackling through me, setting fire to something dark and possessive.
She’s turned on by me.
The muscle in my jaw tightens. My breath hitches, shallow and ragged, as I struggle to hold in the lust clawing at my control.
But then she whispers, “Yes… Master,” lowering the toy from her pert, pink nipple to the apex between her legs.
“ Chyort voz’mi .” I try to stay calm, but her next moan shatters my fragile restraint.
“Yes… Master.” Her hand moves the toy in hypnotic circles, teasing her clit. I inhale sharply, my cock straining painfully, desperate to be enveloped in her warmth, to tease and torment her sensitive flesh.
“Oh… fuck.” Her body arches, tits bouncing in a way that makes my gut clench with pure, animal desire. All I can think about is having them in my face, grabbing and sucking on them without holding back.
“Yes, please, Master, punish me.” Her voice is a sultry plea, dripping with desire.
She’s got this thing for punishment, and damn, it sends a dark thrill racing through me. Suddenly, that old fire of desire is roaring back to life. It’s been a while—okay, forever—since I last hooked up. Maybe ignoring it just fueled the blaze that’s about to consume me. I get up, pour myself more cognac, craving its fire to calm my lust.
But it doesn’t work.
With glass in hand, I walk over to the one-way mirror. I take a slow sip, letting the expensive sting linger in my mouth while I watch her. Through the glass, she’s trembling right on the edge—the look in her eyes says there’s no stopping what’s coming. I take a deep breath, trying to keep my madness in check, even as every part of me screams to plunge into her ecstasy about me.
In the back of my mind, dirty thoughts swirl—I want to be the reason for her explosive moans, to feel her undeniable tightness around my cock, each thrust a claim of raw, primal desire.
“Yes, Master. Please. I need more. Take me, claim me, fill me…” Her voice cuts through, desperate and inviting.
From where I stand, I see her now, riding a wave of fevered passion as she works the green toy with more and more urgency, pushing herself harder and faster until every part of her is humming with desire.
For fuck’s sake.
I knock back a long, burning gulp of cognac, hoping it’ll quench the fire roaring through my veins. It doesn’t. Nothing can smother that blaze—not when she’s spinning fantasies around me. With my control shattered, I stand like a shadow, moving steadily toward the door. It’s time to give my little burglar a proper intro to the man she’s been dying to meet.
I push open the door connecting to my bedroom; the scent of fresh soap and something sweet wafts over me—like vanilla, maybe.
The moaning sound of her pleasure echoes off the walls, a symphony of need that drowns out everything else. My footsteps are silent as I cross the room, settling into a chair beside my portrait, watching her as if I’m outside my own body.
She’s close, so damn close, and I’m transfixed. Just as she’s about to send herself over the edge with the dildo, her eyes flicker open, landing on my portrait. And then, like a lightning strike, she locks eyes with me. Her breath catches, realization crashing over her like a tidal wave.
She’s been caught red-handed.