Chapter 9 Katya #2
He looks down at me—his chest heaving, eyes dark with hunger and something close to reverence.
He brings his fingers to his mouth and tastes me, eyes fixed on mine.
“I could live on this,” he says, his voice dark and hungry.
Before I can respond, he’s moving between my legs, lowering himself until his mouth replaces his hand.
His tongue slides through me, slow at first, then faster, rougher, until I’m gripping his hair and crying out again.
He moans against me, the vibration making me writhe.
His tongue is magic, drawing circles around my clit until I can’t tell where the pleasure starts or ends.
Each stroke is slower, deeper, more consuming—his mouth sealing over me, sucking until my knees threaten to give out.
The sound of his breath against my skin, the heat of his tongue sliding through me again and again—it’s too much, too perfect, and I’m breaking apart on it, every nerve alive.
When I start to shake, he looks up, his mouth wet, his eyes wild.
“You’re going to come again,” he says. “And then I’m going to fuck you until you can't walk."
And then his tongue is back on me, relentless, his hands holding my thighs apart while I fall apart all over again.
The climax rips through me, sharper this time, deeper, pulling a cry from somewhere I didn’t know existed.
My muscles clamp around nothing, shaking so hard my vision blurs.
He keeps me there, his tongue dragging slow, greedy strokes until the pulses turn to aftershocks and I’m trembling against the wall.
I can feel my pulse still racing under his mouth when he finally eases back, his breath warm against the slick heat he’s left behind.
Dimitri rises, his chest brushing mine, the air between us hot and charged.
His hands slide up my thighs, fingers curling into my hips as he presses closer, the hard length of him grinding against my belly through his pants.
I can feel how badly he’s shaking, the strain of holding himself back.
He catches my chin between his fingers and forces me to look at him.
"I’ve thought about this since the night I met you," he growls, "and I'm going to enjoy your sweet pussy for every single second you give it to me. Who knows? Maybe you'll want it a second time."
He unbuttons his pants with one hand and frees himself.
He’s thick and heavy, the head sliding against my slick skin as he finds me.
The contact makes my knees weaken.
He steadies me with a hand at my hip, eyes locked on mine.
"Tell me if I hurt you," he says, even though his tone makes it clear he already knows he won’t.
Then he pushes inside, slow but steady, stretching me inch by inch.
My breath catches.
The pressure is sharp, then melts into heat.
I grip his shoulders, nails digging in as he sinks deeper until he’s buried to the hilt.
He groans, and the sound vibrates through both of us.
"Christ, Katya… you feel like you were made for me."
I suddenly feel desperate to have his skin against mine, his chest bared to my touch, so I claw at his buttons, feverishly working them as he starts moving.
The first thrust is cautious, then another, deeper.
The sting fades, replaced by something overwhelming.
My head tips back against the wall as he moves faster, his hips snapping forward, the sound of skin meeting skin echoing in the kitchen.
Each drive pulls a new sound from me—half cry, half plea.
His shirt falls open, chest crushing my tits, but the heat of it is exquisite.
Dimitri is exquisite.
I'm in heaven being fucked by the Devil.
He braces one arm beside my head, the other gripping my thigh to keep me open for him.
"Look at me," he growls, breath ragged.
"I want to see you come on me. I want to watch you lose it."
The friction builds fast, coiling quickly.
I can feel him everywhere—inside, around, under my skin.
My moans turn to broken whimpers.
He slams into me once, twice, then slows, grinding against me until I gasp, "Yes, Dimitri…"
"That’s it," he whispers, voice wrecked.
"Pray to me. Tell me what you want."
"I'm going to—" The climax tears through me before I can breathe, my body clenching around him as white heat floods every nerve.
He thrusts through every confusion and spasm, chasing his own release, muttering curses in Russian that blur into my skin.
He buries himself deep and holds me there, groaning my name as he comes, his pulse pounding against mine.
I feel the throb of his dick, the slick heat jetting into me as my body clamps down on his shaft.
Every nerve ending is alive with pleasure.
I feel each spasm roll through him, the heavy burst of release hitting me.
His breath catches, a hoarse sound that breaks into an intimidating growl as he thrusts again, driving himself as far as he can go.
The heat floods between us, spreading through me, my body clenching tight around him.
He keeps moving in small, unsteady rolls of his hips, drawing out every drop until his muscles finally give.
We stay locked together, both shaking, until his forehead rests against my shoulder and his breath slows, his hands still gripping me as if letting go would undo everything.
My legs feel boneless.
My mind is blank, even when his mouth covers mine again and claims another scorching kiss.
I return it with just as much heat and desire, and then he pulls away.
The instant his dick leaves me, I feel the ache of missing him, followed by the warmth of his cum seeping down my thigh.
He stays beside me, brushing a strand of hair from my face.
"My bed is open if you would like more of that," he says casually, as though we didn't just tear each other apart.
"But you are free to sleep in the guest bed if you prefer."
I stare up at him, unable to form words.
It's like he sucked the will to flee right out of me.
He backs away, shoving his still-hard, soaked dick back into his pants and zipping up.
I stand there feeling embarrassed and caught off guard by how incredible that was.
But he fixes his shirt with a smug smirk and a look of satisfaction.
I tremble, picking up the boxers and T-shirt, and my panties, which might as well be thrown away.
They're too wet to be useful and I don't know where his wash machine is.
"The guest room is down the hall," he says, gesturing toward the darkened corridor.
"Second door on the right. There are clean sheets. Towels in the bathroom."
I nod numbly.
He watches me for a moment, then turns and walks toward his bedroom without another word.
The door closes behind him.
I stand alone in the kitchen, my body still humming, my mind reeling.
What have I done? And what would my mother think of me?
I've made a deal with the devil. And now I have to see it through.