Chapter 9 Kazimir
KAZIMIR
The cold hits me like a fist when I step outside, but it's not nearly enough to cool the fire burning through my veins, or to ease how painfully fucking hard I am.
My cock strains against my jeans, and every step sends a jolt of frustrated arousal through me.
I can still feel her—the heat of her skin, the wetness on my fingers, the way she trembled and gasped when I touched her.
Those little whimpers she made, the sound of her moans as I edged her toward an orgasm…
Fuck.
I walk around the side of the safe house, putting distance between myself and the door. Between her and me. My breath comes out in harsh clouds, and I brace one hand against the rough wood siding.
This is insane. That was the stupidest thing I could possibly do.
I’ve already gone outside the bounds of what I was supposed to do.
I didn’t find out a damn thing about what Iosef was doing beyond the trafficking; instead, I ended up rescuing the one woman that not only does Ilya no longer give a damn about, but would likely not spend a single resource rescuing.
As far as I know, he’s never forgiven Svetlana for her treatment of his now-wife, and he washed his hands of her the minute he told her to leave that warehouse where they were both being kept.
He trusts me—or as much as a man like Ilya trusts anyone. I'm his fixer, his problem solver, the one who handles the situations that need to disappear. If he discovers I pulled his ex-fiancée out of Iosef's compound without telling him, that I've been hiding her, lying to him…
That’s bad enough. I could lose a lot just from that.
Ilya is not a forgiving man. I could lose my job, but the punishment might be much, much worse.
The thought of the creative ways that Ilya might choose to hurt me for breaking his trust sends a shudder down my spine…
and yet, even the thought of being tortured for lying to my boss isn’t enough to make my fucking erection go down.
Get a fucking grip, Orlov. If lying to Ilya could get me fired and tortured, then fucking her…
That could get me killed.
Ilya has killed men for less. I've watched him do it. A business partner who tried to cheat him. A lieutenant who got too ambitious. A rival who mouthed off to him at a meeting on a particularly bad day.
And Svetlana was his. He gave her up, walked away from her for the woman he truly loved, but I doubt he’d think kindly of me touching her now, even if he no longer wants her. He’d look back at the years they were together, and wonder what I did all that time, what I thought.
There’s no statute of limitations in our world on treachery. If he found out I touched her, that I had my hands on her, inside her—
He might just put a bullet in my head himself.
And yet… I find myself lifting my hand to my face as the cold wind whips against it, breathing in the scent of Svetlana’s arousal on my fingertips. Remembering the way she squirmed and cried out when I spanked her. The way she baited me to punish her…
She wanted it. I’ve had enough women in bondage rooms to know when they’re just doing it to please the man they’re with and when they truly crave that punishment, that feeling of being put in their place.
Svetlana, a woman who has always been pampered, catered to, and worshipped by everyone around her, wanted me to spank her.
She knew she fucked up, and she wanted me to punish her for it. She wanted a man capable of handling her.
I can still feel the way she moved against my hand, desperate and needy and so fucking responsive. The sounds she made—those little gasps and whimpers that went straight to my cock.
The way she looked at me when I pulled away. Not grateful or relieved. Disappointed.
Like she wanted me to keep going. Like she wanted me to lose control and take what we both knew I wanted.
My hand moves to my belt before I can stop myself.
I can’t do this inside, with her so close.
Until I’ve relieved the pressure, this fucking need that feels a thousand times more intense than anything I’ve experienced before, I run the risk of doing exactly the one thing that I shouldn’t.
So despite the bone-wracking cold, despite the fact that I shouldn’t leave her alone right now, I work my belt open, popping the button on my jeans.
The zipper sounds obscenely loud in the quiet night.
I pull my cock out, hissing at the contact of skin on skin. I'm so hard it hurts, the head already slick with pre-cum. The cold air should be uncomfortable, should kill my arousal, but it doesn’t.
I wrap my hand around myself and stroke once, slow and firm, and the pleasure is so intense I have to bite back a groan.
I’ve been aching since I pulled her across my lap; painfully hard since the moment I realized she wasn’t wearing panties.
Leaning back against the wall of the house, I stroke myself again, clenching my jaw against another low groan.
It feels so fucking good. I’m no stranger to my hand; I’ve never had any problem finding a woman when I want one, but there’ve been plenty of occasions where I’ve needed release and haven’t had time to find another way. It’s never felt this fucking good.
I let go of my straining cock for a second, raising my hand to my face again. My cock jerks as I think of her scent on it, pushing my fingers into my mouth to taste her. Her musk is sweet and sharp on my tongue, and I push them back and forth, getting them nice and wet before I grip my cock again.
My saliva and her arousal and my pre-cum mix together, slickening my cock, and I hiss through my teeth as I feel my balls tighten.
This won’t take long. Just thinking about her getting my cock wet is enough to get me close, enough to send a long string of pre-cum dripping down onto the snow as I start to jerk faster.
I can still smell her arousal. Still taste her.
Death almost feels worth it if it meant I could go back inside and fuck her right now, if I could sink my cock into her tight pussy and feel that heat enveloping me while I pump her full of my cum.
I’m so hard, it would feel exquisite. Better than any fuck I’ve ever had.
Possibly a fuck worth dying for.
A harsh breath blows out between my teeth as she fills my mind. It’s not the first time I’ve jerked off thinking about her; far from it, but it feels different now that I’ve had my hands on her. Now that her pussy dripped for me, I ran my fingers over those wet folds.
I can’t stop thinking about her. The way she looked spread across my lap, her ass in the air, that oversized shirt riding up to expose her.
The pink flush spreading across her skin with each slap.
The way she squirmed and gasped and then went still, like she was trying to hide how much she was enjoying it.
But I felt the heat radiating off her, the way her thighs pressed together, seeking friction, how wet she was when I finally touched her.
So fucking wet.
My hand moves faster, my grip tightening.
I brace my other hand against the wall, my head dropping forward as I work myself.
I think about sliding my fingers inside her.
How tight she was, how she clenched around me.
The way she moaned when I found that spot inside her, when I pressed, circled, and made her shake.
How her swollen clit felt, throbbing and perfectly sized for me to find it and work it until she screamed for me.
I think about what it would feel like to replace my fingers with my cock. To push inside her, feel her stretch around me, hear her cry out. To feel her scratch and claw me and spit insults, swearing she doesn’t want me inside her, while that tight little pussy clenches and pulls me deeper.
The thought makes me stroke faster.
Or would she open for me, soften instead of fighting? Wrap her legs around my waist and pull me deeper, beg me to fuck her harder?
Fuck.
I’m so fucking close, my balls drawing up tight, pleasure coiling at the base of my spine.
My breath comes in harsh pants, clouds of vapor in the freezing air.
I think about coming inside her, thrusting into her as I shoot, feeling my hot cum slick my cock as I fuck it deeper into her.
Maybe I could stay hard… I feel like I could, right now, like I could come and keep fucking her, come inside of her until she’s so full it’s dripping down her ass and her thighs…
The thought pushes me over the edge, my jaw clenched hard against a ragged moan of sheer ecstasy as I come hard, my cock pulsing in my hand, cum spilling over my fingers and onto the snow at my feet.
The orgasm tears through me, intense enough that my knees almost buckle, and I have to lock my arm to keep myself upright.
I come more than I can remember, in a long time, spurt after spurt coats the snowdrift at my feet.
For a moment, there's nothing but the pleasure, the release, the blessed emptiness in my head.
Then reality crashes back in.
I'm standing behind a safe house in the middle of God-knows-where Russia, my cock in my hand, having just jerked off to thoughts of a woman I'm supposed to be rescuing. A woman who's been tortured and traumatized and who sure as hell doesn't need me adding to her problems.
And the worst part is that, just like I fantasized about, I’m still fucking hard.
My cock is still stiff in my hand, showing no signs of going down. I give myself one more stroke as the last beads of cum roll down my shaft, and I hiss as painfully intense pleasure jolts through me.
The orgasm took the edge off, but it didn't solve the problem. I’m not going back in there feeling clear-headed and like I can sleep without imagining what it would be like to fuck her until she screams my name.
Exactly the opposite, in fact.