Roman #2
“Roman,” she whispers.
“I know.”
My mouth returns to her neck as my hand moves higher.
She turns her face into my shoulder to muffle the sound she makes, and that small attempt at control almost finishes me. I want her loud. I want her shameless.
“This is a very bad idea,” I say.
She smiles against me.
It’s wicked and trembling and nothing like the woman who nearly cried at the check-in counter.
“I know.”
Then she rolls her hips against me again.
And I stop pretending I have any intention of behaving.
Every inch of her is pressed to me. Soft breasts against my chest. Round hips in my hands. Her thigh hooked uncertainly against mine as she tries to get closer and cannot, not with the cramped space, not with the clothes between us, not with me still holding back by some thread of sanity.
I want that thread gone.
I kiss her harder. She moans into my mouth, and I feel it everywhere.
“Katerina,” I say against her lips.
“What?” The word is breathless. Impatient.
I grip her chin and force her eyes to mine. “Last chance.”
Her pupils are huge. Her mouth is swollen from me. Her cheeks are flushed, but her gaze is clear. Wanting. Furious with wanting.
“I don’t know if I wasn’t clear enough,” she says. “But I want you to fuck me.”
I reach down, catch the hem of her skirt, and pull it up.
Her breath catches.
My hand slides over the warm curve of her thigh. Smooth skin. Trembling muscles. Lace at the edge of her panties. She grips my shoulders, nails biting through my shirt, as if she needs something to hold on to before I even touch her properly.
I look down.
White lace. So innocent, it’s obscene.
A dark, wet patch at the center.
My cock jerks hard enough to hurt. “Fuck,” I mutter.
She blushes, but she does not close her legs. No, she watches my face instead. She wants to see what she does to me.
So I let her.
I hook one finger beneath the lace and drag it aside. She’s soaked.
Hot and slick, swollen for me, her body answering before she can dress it up with pride or shame or manners. I touch her with two fingers, just a slow stroke through her folds, and she nearly buckles.
I catch her with my other arm around her waist. “Quiet,” I say.
“I can’t.”
“You can.”
“I don’t want to.”
Christ.
I cover her mouth with mine before she says anything else that makes me forget where we are.
My fingers find her clit, and her whole body jolts.
I circle it slowly, watching the way her face changes. The defiance leaves first. Then the embarrassment. Then everything but need. Her head falls back against the wall, eyes half-closed, lips parted beneath mine as I rub her in tight, deliberate circles.
She’s too responsive. Too beautiful like this.
All that polished restraint stripped away in a washroom at thirty thousand feet because she decided, for once in her obedient life, to want something and take it.
Me. She wants me.
Her hand drops between us, fumbling at my belt. I catch her wrist.
She makes a frustrated sound. “Roman.”
I should slow her. I should keep control. Instead, I put her hand back on me.
She works my belt open, clumsy from haste. Then the button. Then the zipper. When her fingers wrap around my cock, I have to brace one hand against the mirror.
Her eyes widen.
I see the moment she feels the size of me. The thick heat in her palm. The hard pulse of need she dragged out of me and then followed me here to claim.
She strokes me once.
I groan into her neck.
“Like this?” she whispers.
I laugh once, harsh and broken. “Do not sound so innocent while your hand is on my cock.”
She does it again, slower, dragging her palm over the length of me, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from making a sound too loud for the cabin.
Enough. I turn her around to face the mirror again.
She gasps as I press in behind her, my open shirt against her back, one arm around her waist, her skirt pushed up over my wrist.
“Look,” I say.
She trembles.
Our reflection stares back at us.
Her hair wild. Her lips red. Her sweater pushed up just enough to show the lower curve of her breasts and the lace I disturbed with my mouth.
I slide my hand between her thighs again.
She watches in the mirror as my fingers disappear under the white lace.
Her mouth opens. No sound comes out this time.
Good girl.
I stroke her until her knees shake. Until she has to grab the sink. Until her hips begin to move against my hand, chasing the pressure, shameless now, desperate now.
“There,” she breathes. “Roman, please.”
“Please what?”
Her eyes find mine in the mirror. “Fuck me.”
The words nearly finish me.
I pull my hand away and shove her panties down just enough. She steps one foot free, then braces herself as I grip her hips and pull her back.
My cock slides against her slick heat.
She whimpers.
I close my eyes for half a second. No condom. The thought cuts through me, inconvenient.
I lean over her, mouth at her ear. “Katerina.”
She’s breathing hard, hands white-knuckled on the sink. “What?”
“I don’t have protection.”
She stills. For one second, I think sense will return. Then she turns her head just enough to look at me over her shoulder. Her voice is quiet. Clear. “I want you anyway.”
My control snaps, and I push into her.
Slow at first, because I have to be. Because she’s tight, hot, impossibly wet, and the first inch of her nearly unmans me. Her body stretches around me, resisting, yielding, taking me in little by little as her mouth falls open in a silent cry.
I grip her hip with one hand and clamp the other over her mouth before the sound can escape.
She bites my palm. I almost come right there.
“Fuck,” I breathe against her hair. “You feel too good.”
She makes a broken sound behind my hand.
I stop when I’m fully inside her.
Her body flutters around me, tight and slick and shaking. I can feel every breath she takes. Every small tremor. Every pulse of her cunt gripping my cock like she was made for this, for me, for the kind of mistake that ruins lives.
I don’t move yet. If I move, I may not stop.
Her eyes lift to the mirror. Mine meet them. For a moment, we just stare at each other.
Then she pushes her hips back. Deliberate. Demanding.
I groan low in my throat. “You’re going to kill me.”
She pulls my hand down from her mouth. “Then move,” she whispers.
So I do.
I draw back slowly, almost all the way out, then thrust back in. Her head drops, and I catch her by the throat, not squeezing, only holding her upright, forcing her to watch us.
“No,” I say. “Look.”
Her eyes open.
I fuck her again. Harder this time.
Her breasts bounce under her sweater. Her lips part. Her fingers curl against the sink as she fights to stay quiet.
The plane hums beneath us.
Outside the door, people sleep, sip champagne, read books, know nothing.
Inside, I lose my mind by inches.