SEVENTEEN SET A FUCKING DATE ALREADY!
SEVENTEEN
SET A FUCKING DATE ALREADY!
The next time I wake, it’s mostly because I need to pee.
The lightening of the sky tells me the time without me even looking at the clock, and in the back of my mind, I’m reminded of what he said about being an early riser.
I’m not sure how I don’t wake him when I get up—I have to unburrito myself out of his arms—but he’s still sleeping.
I use the toilet, think about the time and the potential for kisses, then grab my toothbrush, duck into the shower, and quickly freshen up.
Last night didn’t end how I figured it might, but honestly, I’m glad that he’s still as unpredictable as ever.
It means I don’t get bored but also, that this is more than just sex to him.
I guess he’s proven that over the years, but seeing is believing. It’s hard to truly know when he purposely kept distance from me. As a teen, I used to brood over that. But looking back, I’m glad that he did because I’m not his prey.
I can’t say he’s not my personal predator because he hunts on my command—
The little clutch, deep inside, a tiny firework display that no one but me can feel, tells me how much I like that…
Upon returning to my bedroom, I find that he’s shifted. The sheets are less tangled around him, providing me with the perfect opportunity to study him.
I am so willing to get a PhD in Maxim Lyanov.
He’s wearing boxer briefs—that’s the first surprising detail I notice, and no, not because I’m obsessed with his dick.
In my defense, it is the first one I’ve wanted inside me.
It’s just that the white fabric against his bronzed skin is such a sharp contrast that it catches my eye.
Liar, liar, pants on fire? Mebbe.
His brow is puckered. Like he still stresses out while he’s asleep. One hand props up his head, and the other rests on his abdomen. I didn’t know six packs could be delineated while sleeping, but I guess that tracks with how tense he looks.
Humming, I take in the fact that every part of him, including his feet, is handsome.
His parents must have been beautiful. And he seemed genuinely sorrowful about their passing so he misses them.
I don’t miss my dad. I wish Camille had killed him earlier, in fact. But that’s me.
As I kneel on the side of the bed, being careful not to disturb his slumber, I glance over him again and that’s when I see it.
Well, I see a lot.
A bunch of scars. Even on his thighs and calves. Gunshot and knife wounds. A part of his thigh bears burn marks.
Don’t ask me why I’m noticing this now when I’ve seen him nude in the shower twice. But this is passive recall. And when Maxim is showering, the scars on his body are the last thing I pick up on.
What draws most of my attention, however, is that his dick has popped under his waistband.
Morning wood.
In the flesh.
Intrigued, I scamper down the bed and study the mushroom tip and the two or so inches that are revealed to me from above the band.
Erections have to hurt.
It looks tight.
I’m not sure if he’s cut or not. I’d have to google to know the difference when he’s hard. I’ve seen the little external “socks” in porn and can’t deny that they look more attractive cut, but isn’t that genital mutilation? On a nonconsenting baby boy?
My brain churns through the facts, which is when Maxim blusters, “Should I expect an essay on my dick by how long you’ve been staring at it?”
“I wanted to taste it, then I realized you were asleep and couldn’t, and then I wondered if you were circumcised, and that led me down the rabbit hole of whether circumcision is genital mutilation and—”
He groans. “Too early.”
I grin. “Not too early. I’m wide awake.”
“Was my penis revelatory?”
“Definitely. If I were an artist, I could draw it for days.”
“That’s how big it is?”
I cackle. “Longer than the Hudson.”
His lips curve into a sleepy smirk.
“The Greeks have a fascinating obsession with penises.”
“They do?” he asks around a yawn.
“Yes. Have you ever visited?”
“Athens. Once. For business. But I didn’t visit a museum.”
“Ha, no, I bet you didn’t. Or the tourist spots…”
He scratches his chest. “Definitely not.”
As I process how this is another form of intimacy, getting to see him like this, I murmur, “They have dick bottle openers and dick magnets and all kinds of stuff. Painted wooden carvings. Your dick should have been a model.”
“My dick appreciates the compliment.”
“I can see it does.” Hesitantly, I make to touch him, but he grabs my wrist and stops me.
“Whatever you want from me, Victoria, you can have it. No repercussions. No questions asked. I’m yours.”
My nose scrunches. “That doesn’t seem very fair.”
“It is to me,” is his simple answer. “That you want to touch me isn’t something I wish to discourage. I don’t expect the same because it’s different for women and I respect that. But I want you. Whatever way you’ll let me have you.”
“I trust you too,” I whisper, surprised at the offer of freedom to explore he’s giving me but excited too.
His thumb glosses over my pulse point. “And I’m glad you do, but I won’t expect the same freedom. Understood?”
Instead of answering, a strange relief filling me at his recognition of the differences between us, I let my tongue flutter out.
I smooth it over the little half circles that join together and form that piece of skin that connects the foreskin to the shaft. When I do, his hips buck.
Fascinated by the reaction and wanting more, I notice his knuckles dig into his upper thigh.
Keeping my touch light, I watch as he shudders when I flit to the slit. That part’s less sensitive. But when I pop the tip into my mouth and suck gently, his ass rocks forward.
His nostrils flare next, and his eyes clench.
The salty liquid on my tongue tells me he’s enjoying it, even if he seems to be in pain.
Humming at that sliver of information, I force more saliva to form in my mouth and then use that to circle the top.
When his hand falls on the back of my head, I feel the control in him. It’s like a living entity. Burning and growing and evolving. A part of me would enjoy seeing him snap, but another part appreciates how tightly he has himself leashed.
I suck on the tip, enjoying the fact that his underpants are in the way.
Not only is it discouragement for wearing them in the future, but it’s a good first-time experience.
I don’t feel as if I have to gag on him like I’ve seen in porn.
I don’t feel like I have to be phenomenal at it.
I just need to lick and suck and kiss and touch.
And the crazy part is, he responds.
Which means it’s working anyway.
The low stress means I enjoy it as well. This crazy powerful man, who rules over parts of NYC like he’s an evil king, is at my mercy.
I can slow down or speed up.
I can suck or lick.
Or… bite.
I can taunt and tease or soothe and savor.
And every time his hips rock has an answering nudge in my core sparking to life.
When he mumbles words that aren’t Russian or English, my brows lift and I punish him with a soft nip to that tiny, sensitive strip of flesh on the underside.
Eyes snapping open, he hisses but pre-cum spurts from the tip like I took him down the back of my throat. Seeing how it riled him up, I don’t do it again, but I take him into my mouth and I suck. Hard. Lashing that tender area with my tongue, urging him into finding release.
When he snarls my name and then sandwiches it with more words that I don’t understand, I yelp when his hands cup my cheeks and he dislodges my mouth so that cum splatters my collarbone and neck but goes nowhere near my lips.
I growl while his heavy, panting breaths echo around the silent room, and then, absently massaging his cum into my skin, he says something that sounds like, “Es tevi mīlu.”
“Spoilsport.”
“Set a date.”
I leer, “Was I that good at it?”
His eyes lock on mine and the expression in them belies the curve of his lips. “Very impressive.” His thumb comes to the corner of my mouth, and I feel him smooth over my bottom lip. “Beautiful.”
His other hand strokes over my head as I press my face into his hip to hide my expression. Shy. What a great time to turn timid.
“What language were you speaking?”
“Latgalian.”
I pop up to gape at him. “Latvia?”
“My grandmother was Latvian. She moved to Moscow after the war.”
“And she taught you the language?”
“Said it reminded her of home, and she refused to speak to me in Russian after school.”
I cackle. “Hardcore.”
A smile dances on his lips. “She’d have liked you. She predicted that too many girls would let me get away with murder because I had a pretty face.”
“She had faith in you. You might have been a pretty kid, but you could have turned into a monster as a teenager.”
“Like Seamus?” he jeers, but it’s lighthearted.
I still slap his abs before I turn my face into them. It’s not super comfortable, but I like the connection. As well as how he falls silent while he pets my hair.
Then, he ruins it.
“I have to go, kotik.”
“No,” I moan. “Stay longer.”
“Need to get back to the city and you have classes.”
“I could skip—”
“No. I won’t be the reason you cut school.”
The stern tone has me shivering. “Oooh, bossy.”
He rolls his eyes. “I can be back in Poughkeepsie tonight—”
I slide my fingers through his. “It’s fine. You stay in the city. I won’t say no to you visiting me on weekends though.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“It’s not that much of a commute—”
“I promise I’ll be fine.”
He sits up, dislodges me, then tumbles me over so that he’s pinning me to the bed. “I’ll agree only if you call me when you need me.”
“If!”
“When.”
“IF!”
“When.”
I huff. “Fine.”
“Yesterday counts. I want you to call me if you’re having any issues.”
“What will you do if I don’t?”
“Testing me already, kotik? You want to be spanked?” His lips drop a kiss to the tip of my nose.
“Stop talking about it,” I grouch even as my hands dig into his hips and I hold him in place.
“Less talk, more action?”
“Not this morning. I have class at nine.”
At my prim retort, he bursts out laughing. “But if class started at ten…”