30. Sandrine
Sandrine
Iknock on Kirill’s private office door a few hours later. The one adjacent to his bedroom.
“Come in,” he calls, and by the way his surprised eyes lift from something laid out on his desk, I can tell he didn’t expect me.
Drago perhaps, or his sister. Not me. In a nightgown.
He’s removed his suit jacket and wears only a shirt with the top few buttons undone. With the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, I see his thick muscles, bulging veins, and a riot of tattoos.
“Can I help you, Madam Volkov?” He stands up and folds his arms.
I close the door behind me. Drago, who moves freely in all wings of this mansion, shouldn’t see me in a thin nightgown.
“I’m not ready to come to your bed,” I say, my arms tucked behind me.
“You came all this way in a see-through nightgown to tell me that?” He runs a hand through his thick, dark hair.
“No.” I edge forward, getting closer to him. “But I want to satisfy your needs another way.”
One eyebrow lifted, he says, “You don’t have to do anything.”
His voice, rough and deeper since it’s late, carries just a hint of an accent, it moves through me like warm honey. I can also tell by the set of his jaw and the pain in his eyes that he means it. He doesn’t want to rush me.
“I know for you, we crossed these lines years ago.” I keep moving until I feel his heat. “But for me, this is my first time again.”
His eyes stay on me as I approach slowly. “That nightgown…”
I look down and brush my hand across the soft, thin fabric. “Is this new?”
“No,” he answers quickly. “I bought it for you.”
I figured that. It’s not something a woman buys for herself.
His eyes rake up and down my frame. “How do you feel?”
“I feel like I want to taste you.” I kneel before him and reach for his belt.
“Fuck,” he mutters, stopping my hands. “I’m working hard to give you time and to respect the boundaries you need.”
“I’m your wife. I don’t want you to seek pleasure somewhere else.”
“I don’t want this from someone else.” He takes a seat in his desk chair and allows me to unfasten the belt.
My hand brushes his zipper, and I can feel how hard he’s grown in a short amount of time. All without touching him. Just by looking at me. And possibly, remembering me this way. On my knees. Taking him into my mouth.
“Was I good at this?” I whisper, slowly lowering the zipper.
“Yes, moya zhena. You were.” A hand brushes my chin. “A natural since you’d never done it before. Any of it. I was your first everything.”
Smiling, I feel more confident. “Then it should come naturally to me again.”
“Take me out,” he rasps, shifting his hips.
There’s something so incredibly sexy about a man wanting my mouth on him. Letting me control this. Control him, maybe.
“Like this?” I ask as I reach into his pants and close my hand around the warm, velvety length of him.
“Look at me, Sandrine.”
My eyes fly up to his, and the fire in his gaze tightens every nerve ending.
“Now lick the tip,” he instructs me. “Taste me. All with your eyes on me.”
I peek my tongue out and swipe it across the bulbous crown, across the wet slit.
“Fuck,” he growls and tips his head back, breaking that eye contact he wanted so much.
Was it that good?
But he looks down at me again. “Feeling your mouth on me is a fantasy I never let go of.”
I close my lips around this length. He’s so big I’m not sure how much can fit.
“Relax your throat.” His hand gently presses the back of my head. “You can take all of me. I’ve seen you do it.”
My core throbs at that. He knows another version of me. But it sounds like the memory is painful.
I do as he says, and he easily slips all the way in. My nose hits the base, my bottom lip brushing against his hard, tight testicles.
Kirill growls from low in his throat. “That’s my good wife. Christ, you look so beautiful on your knees for me.”
I continue to work him, loving the taste of salt and musk. When I glance up, his eyes are fluttering. Like he wants to watch but it’s too good.
His cock throbs in my mouth and he mutters, “Fuck, you’re going to destroy me.”
No, I already did that, and now I’m here to put him back together.