Chapter One #3
“Good,” Dmitri says, his right thumb hovering over the swell of my left breast. “Now, hands above your head.”
I raise my hand above my head, and Dmitri lets out a low, satisfied sound that seems to vibrate right through the spot between my legs. Something about the command—and the feeling of being so exposed, so vulnerable to him—sends a jolt of unexpected pleasure through me.
He reaches behind me and unclasps my bra, throwing it aside.
He pauses, his dark eyes feasting avidly on my puckered nipples.
I squirm under his heated gaze. Electric tingles shoot through my veins, pulsing through my blood.
I've never been so aware of my body, never knew I was capable of feeling such intense sensations.
He leans forward and presses his mouth against mine, his tongue sliding against mine in a deep, thorough kiss. Then he pulls back, and a groan of protest rises in my throat. I try to pull his head back to mine, but Dmitri chuckles and catches my wrists, pressing them firmly back above my head.
“Patience, kukolka,” he says, a slow smirk tilting his lips. “Keep your hands where I can see them. Let me worship your body.”
I nod my head, my skin flushing hot. I can barely think, much less talk.
“Good girl,” Dmitri says, and the praise sends a shiver of pleasure down my spine. He leans forward and kisses the corner of my mouth, then my jaw, my neck, my shoulder—slowly... his lips leaving a trail of fire on my skin.
He keeps one hand wrapped around my wrists, pinning them firmly above my head, while his other hand begins to explore my body. The restraint makes everything more intense somehow—like all my sensation is concentrated in the places he’s touching me.
I try to move my hands, testing his grip, and he tightens it, pressing my wrists more firmly into the mattress.
“I said don’t move,” he reminds me, his voice a low growl. “Be a good girl for me.”
The commanding tone sends another wave of heat through me. I didn’t know I wanted this—to be held down, to be told what to do, to surrender control—but my body responds to it like it’s exactly what I’ve been craving.
He traces the curve of my breast, thumbs my nipple until I whimper, then trails lower, over my stomach, toward the place still slick and sensitive from what he did to me in the kitchen.
“Please,” I breathe, though I’m not sure what I’m begging for.
“Please, what?” His fingers hover at my entrance, teasing but not entering. “Tell me what you want, kukolka.”
“Touch me. Please.”
“Good girl. Asking so nicely.” He rewards me by sliding one finger inside, and I moan at the intrusion. It feels strange and wonderful all at once—the stretch, the fullness, the intimate invasion. He curls his finger, finding that spot that makes stars burst behind my eyes.
“There?” he asks, though he clearly knows the answer.
“Yes—oh God, yes—”
He adds a second finger, stretching me further, and begins to thrust slowly. His thumb finds my clit, circling with just enough pressure to make me writhe against the sheets.
He increases his pace, his fingers pumping faster, his thumb working my clit with devastating precision. The pressure builds again, faster this time because I’m already so sensitive, so primed from before.
“Come for me, kukolka,” he commands. “I want to feel you fall apart on my fingers.”
I break with a sob, my inner walls clenching around him, my whole body shaking with the force of it. He works me through it, prolonging the pleasure until I’m gasping and oversensitive and nearly incoherent.
“That’s my good girl,” he murmurs against my temple. “So beautiful when you come.”
When I finally come down, he releases my wrists and brings his glistening fingers to his mouth, sucking them clean while holding my gaze.
“You taste like heaven,” he says.
I should be embarrassed. Instead, I feel powerful. Desired. Wanted.
I let go of my legs and place both my arms over my face, suddenly mortified by how completely I’d surrendered. Dmitri gently pushes my arms apart, exposing me to his heated gaze again.
“Don’t hide from me,” he says, his deep voice settling somewhere deep within my heart.
“You are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met, Mireille.
I want you so badly...” He trails off, and for a moment, he looks like he’s really battling himself.
Then he leans down and places a lingering kiss on my forehead. “You’re mine, kukolka. Mine.”
And suddenly, I want to make him feel the way he’s made me feel.
“Dmitri,” I say, surprised by the steadiness of my own voice. “I want to touch you.”
His expression flickers—surprise, then heat. “You don’t have to—”
“I want to.” I push myself up onto my elbows, feeling bolder than I ever have. “Please. Show me how.”
For a long moment, he just looks at me, something warring in his expression. Then he rises from the bed and begins to unbutton his shirt.
I watch, transfixed, as he reveals himself to me. Broad shoulders. A muscled chest dusted with dark hair. Defined abs that flex as he moves. He’s beautiful in a way that’s almost intimidating—all hard lines and coiled power.
When his hands move to his belt, my breath catches.
He pauses. “You sure about this?”
I nod, not trusting my voice.
He unbuckles his belt, unzips his pants, and pushes them down along with his boxers. And then he’s standing before me completely bare, his arousal thick and hard and jutting toward me.
I’ve never seen a man like this before. I’ve seen pictures, of course—clinical images in health class, the occasional explicit scene in movies. But nothing prepared me for the reality of Dmitri, fully aroused and wanting me.
“You can look,” he says, a hint of amusement in his voice. “Touch too, if you want.”
I reach out tentatively, my fingers brushing along his length. He hisses in a breath, his whole body going taut.
“Did I hurt you?” I pull back immediately.
“No.” He catches my hand and brings it back. “The opposite. Here—let me show you.”
He wraps my fingers around him, adjusting my grip, and then guides my hand in a slow stroke. His skin is hot and smooth, and I can feel him pulse against my palm.
“Like this,” he murmurs, showing me the rhythm he likes. “A little tighter—yes, just like that. Good girl.”
He releases my hand, letting me take over, and I watch his face as I stroke him. The way his jaw clenches, the way his eyes grow heavy-lidded, the way his breath comes faster—it’s intoxicating, knowing I’m the one making him feel this way.
“Faster,” he groans, his hips starting to move, thrusting into my grip. “God, Mireille—your hands—”
I increase my pace, marveling at the way his control seems to slip with every stroke. This powerful, commanding man, coming undone because of me.
“I’m close,” he warns, his voice strained. “If you don’t want me to—”
“I want it,” I say, surprising myself. “I want to watch you.”
He groans, a deep, guttural sound, and then he’s pulsing in my hand, spilling hot and thick across my chest. I watch his face as he comes—the way his features twist with pleasure, the way he bites down on his lip, the way he says my name like a prayer.
When it’s over, he opens his eyes and looks down at me, at the evidence of his pleasure marking my skin. Something possessive flashes in his gaze.
“Mine,” he says roughly. Then he leans down and kisses me, soft and sweet, a contrast to everything that came before.
Before I can respond to that, he swoops me into his arms and slides off the bed. I let out an excited squeal, wrapping my arms around his neck.
“What are you doing?” I ask, chucking.
“Getting you cleaned up, moya kukolka,” he says, heading in the direction of what I believe to be the bathroom.
The shower is large and luxurious, with multiple heads and steam curling through the air. Dmitri leads me inside, the warm water cascading over both of us.
He’s gentle as he washes me, his hands sliding soapy trails across my skin. It’s intimate in a different way than before—tender rather than urgent. He pays attention to every part of me, from my shoulders to my fingertips to the arches of my feet.
“Turn around,” he murmurs, and I obey. His fingers work through my hair, massaging shampoo into my scalp, and I lean back against his chest with a contented sigh.
“This feels nice,” I say softly.
“You deserve to be taken care of.” He rinses the soap from my hair, then presses a kiss to my shoulder. His hand trails down my side, over my hip, and I shiver despite the warm water.
“Dmitri...” I breathe, not sure if it’s a warning or an invitation.
“One more,” he murmurs against my neck, his fingers sliding between my thighs. “I want to feel you come one more time tonight.”
I’m still sensitive from before, so it doesn’t take long.
His fingers work me with that same devastating precision, his other arm wrapped around my waist to keep me upright as my legs start to tremble.
When I shatter against his hand, he swallows my cry with a deep kiss, holding me steady until the tremors fade.
“That’s three,” he says with a satisfied smile, pressing his lips to my forehead.
After the shower, he wraps me in a warm towel. I’m boneless, exhausted in the best way, barely able to keep my eyes open.
“Stay tonight,” he says softly, brushing damp hair from my face.
I want to. God, I want to. But reality creeps back in—my roommate, my morning class, the fact that I don’t have anything with me.
“I can’t,” I say reluctantly. “I have brunch with my parents tomorrow, and all my things are at the dorm...”
Something flickers in his eyes—disappointment, maybe—but he nods. “Then I’ll take you home.”
The drive back to campus is quiet, comfortable. His hand rests on my thigh the whole way, his thumb tracing lazy circles on my skin. When he pulls up outside my dorm, he cups my face and kisses me slowly, thoroughly.
“Goodnight,” he murmurs against my lips.
“Goodnight, Dmitri.”