Ruslan
Her back hits the mattress, and for half a second I stop above her.
Not because I don’t want her.
Because I want her too much.
She’s spread beneath me in my shirt, bare legs around my waist, hair loose over my sheets, mouth swollen from kissing me. Her cheeks are flushed, her breasts rising hard under black cotton, and the look on her face is not fear anymore.
It’s want.
Nervous, yes. Angry, still.
But want.
I can work with anger. I understand anger.
This woman has been trembling in my house for days, and now she’s looking up at me like I’m the only thing in the room she wants to touch. It almost breaks what little sense I have left.
“Last chance,” I say.
She grips my shirt in both fists. “If you ask me one more time, I’m going to scream.”
“That’s not a no.”
“No,” she says, eyes flashing. “It isn’t.”
I kiss her again.
She opens for me immediately, and the last of my restraint tears thin.
Her legs tighten around my hips, pulling me down until my cock grinds against her through my trousers.
She gasps into my mouth, then does it again herself, rolling her hips up with an awkward, desperate little movement that makes me nearly lose my mind.
I catch her wrists and pin them above her head.
She goes still for one breath. Then her whole body softens under mine.
Fuck.
“You like that,” I say.
Her throat works. “Maybe.”
“Liar.”
Her eyes burn into mine, embarrassed and defiant at once. “You’re very annoying.”
“And you’re wet.”
Her mouth falls open.
I don’t give her time to answer. I drag my free hand down her body, over the soft curve of her breast, her waist, her stomach, then under the hem of my shirt. She jerks when my fingers find the damp heat between her thighs through her panties.
Soaked.
I press the heel of my hand against her pussy and feel her arch hard beneath me.
“Ruslan.”
There’s nothing careful in her voice now. Nothing polite. Just need.
I bend and bite the side of her throat, not hard enough to hurt, hard enough to make her remember it tomorrow. Her hips lift into my hand.
“That’s it,” I murmur against her skin. “Show me.”
She whimpers, then seems to hate herself for it, because she turns her face into the pillow.
I release her wrists and take her jaw in my hand, turning her back to me. “No hiding.”
Her lashes flutter. “I’m not hiding.”
“You are.”
“I don’t know what I’m doing.”
I still.
She feels it immediately. Her hands come to my chest, not pushing, just holding.
“I don’t mean stop,” she says quickly. “I mean I don’t usually…”
“I know.”
Her face goes even hotter. “You don’t know.”
“I know enough.”
I kiss her once, slower this time, because she needs that even if she won’t ask. Then I look at her and say, “You tell me if anything is too much.”
She nods.
“Words.”
“If it’s too much, I’ll tell you.”
“Good.”
Before she can answer, I move down her body and push my shirt up over her hips.
Her hands fly to the hem. “Wait.”
I stop. She looks suddenly uncertain. Not about me. About herself. About the body I’m trying to see.
I hate whoever taught her to do that.
I close my hand around her knee and spread her leg wider. “Let go of the shirt.”
Her fingers tighten.
“Zoya.”
Her eyes meet mine.
Slowly, she releases the fabric.
The shirt rides up, exposing her stomach, her hips, her panties. She’s soft everywhere my hands want to be. Curves made to hold. Thighs full under my palms. Waist warm, belly trembling because she’s nervous and turned on and trying not to show both.
I look at her until she starts breathing harder.
“You’re staring,” she whispers.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I want to.”
Her mouth closes.
That answer does something to her. I see it. The way her body stops bracing for insult. The way her breath catches for a different reason.
I hook my fingers into her panties and pull them down. She lifts her hips for me. I drag the fabric down her thighs, over her knees, off one ankle, and drop it on the floor. Then I put my hands on her thighs and open her fully.
For a second I don’t move.
Her pussy is slick and swollen, glistening in the low light, wet because of me. Her clit is already hard, her thighs shaking around my hands. I can smell her now, warm and sweet and filthy, and my cock throbs so hard it hurts.
“Fuck,” I say.
She covers her face with one hand. “Don’t say it like that.”
I bend and kiss the inside of her thigh. “Like what?”
“Like I’m—” She stops.
I bite her softly. “Like you’re what?”
Her hand drops from her face. Her eyes are bright and embarrassed. “Like you like what you see,” she says.
I look directly at her while I lower my mouth closer to her pussy. “I do.”
Then I lick her.
Her whole body jumps.
I drag my tongue through her wet pussy, slow enough to taste her properly, and her hips jerk against my mouth. She makes a broken sound and grabs at the sheets. I do it again, flatter, deeper, licking from her opening up to her clit until she’s trembling under my hands.
“Ruslan,” she gasps.
“Yes.” I put my mouth over her clit and suck.
She cries out.
I pin one of her hips down before she can squirm away. Not hard. Enough to keep her where I want her. She tastes better than I imagined, and I have imagined it more than I should have. The shy librarian. The woman in my shirt. Soft thighs spread around my head while she tries and fails to be quiet.
She is not quiet now.
Every stroke of my tongue pulls another sound out of her. Every time I circle her clit, her fingers twist in the sheets. When I slide one finger into her pussy, she goes tight around me and chokes on my name.
I curl my finger, and her back arches.
“There,” I say against her. “That’s the spot.”
“Oh God.”
“I’m the furthest thing from God, sweetheart.”
She lets out a shocked little laugh that turns into a moan when I add a second finger.
Her body takes me slowly at first, then greedily, her pussy clenching around my fingers as I fuck them into her while my mouth works her clit. She’s soaked now, dripping down my hand, slick enough that every movement sounds obscene in the quiet room.
I love it.
I want more of it. I want her everywhere.
I lift my head and watch my fingers slide into her. She tries to close her thighs, overwhelmed by the sight, and I spread them again.
“Look,” I tell her.
Her eyes are hazy. “What?”
“Look how wet your pussy is.”
Her face burns, but she looks.
The moment she sees my fingers disappearing inside her, slick with her, she makes a sound that goes straight into my blood.
“That embarrasses you?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“But you like it.”
She squeezes around my fingers. Answer enough.
I smile and lower my mouth back to her clit.
This time I don’t pull myself back. I eat her like I have all night and no intention of letting her leave my bed the same woman. My tongue circles her clit, then flicks, then sucks until her breathing breaks apart and her hips start moving in little desperate pushes against my face.
“I’m close,” she says, voice trembling. “Please. Please. Please.”
“I know.”
“It’s too much.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“It is.”
I lift my head, fingers still fucking her. “Do you want me to stop?”
Her eyes fly open. “No.”
“Then take it.”
She comes hard.
Her pussy clamps around my fingers, her thighs shaking on either side of my head, one hand flying to my hair as pleasure tears through her.
She cries out, not caring who hears now, and I keep my mouth on her clit until the first wave breaks into another and she sobs my name like she hates me for making it so good.
Only when she starts pushing weakly at my forehead do I stop.
I climb up her body.
Her mouth is open. Eyes half-lidded. Shirt shoved up over her breasts now, one nipple visible above the black fabric, hard and flushed. Her legs are still spread, pussy wet and twitching from what I just did to her.
I kiss her before she can hide again. She tastes herself on my mouth and moans.
That sound takes the last piece of my control.
I sit back and strip my shirt off, then stand to open my belt. Her eyes follow every movement. When I push my trousers down and take my cock in my hand, she stops breathing.
I see the nerves return. I expected them.
“Breathe,” I say.
She inhales too quickly, then laughs once, shaky. “That’s not helping.”
“No?”
“You’re…” Her eyes drop again. “You’re a lot.”
“I’ll go slow.”
Her gaze lifts to mine. “Will you?”
“If you need me to.”
Then she reaches for me. Not like a woman who knows exactly what she’s doing. But she reaches anyway, wrapping her fingers around my cock with a careful grip that almost makes my knees lock.
Her hand is soft and warm.
I close my eyes for half a second.
“Like this?” she asks.
The uncertainty in her voice is going to kill me.
I put my hand over hers and tighten her grip. “Like this.”
She strokes me once with my hand guiding hers.
A curse scrapes out of my throat. Her eyes darken at the sound. Her hand moves again, more sure this time, dragging over my cock from base to tip. She watches herself touch me, cheeks flushed, lips parted.
“You like that?” I ask.
She nods.
“Say it.”
Her thumb brushes the head of my cock, smearing wetness there. “I like touching you.”
I take her wrist and pull her hand away before I finish right there like a boy.
She gives me a dazed, offended look. “What?”
“You keep doing that, this ends too soon.”
Her eyes widen, and then she smiles.
Small. Wicked. Unexpected. It hits me in the chest and cock at the same time.
“Did I almost ruin your control?” she asks.
I push her back onto the bed and come over her. “You have no idea.”
Her smile disappears when my cock slides against her wet pussy. I rub the head through her slowly, coating myself in her slickness, pressing up against her clit just to hear the sound she makes.
She grips my shoulders. “Ruslan.”
“I know.”
I reach for the drawer, tear open a condom, and roll it on with less patience than I should have. Then I settle between her thighs again.
The first press of my cock against her entrance makes her whole body tense.
I pause. Her eyes are on mine, wide but not afraid.
“Tell me,” I say.
“I want it.”
“Tell me if it hurts.”
“I will.”