33. Shower 2 - Maxim 1
THIRTY-THREE
A gust of cold air washes over my spine as the door opens.
Turning around, I see my naked wife leaning against the glass door.
“We have to stop meeting like this, wife.”
“Ahh, so you didn’t forget what I was to you?”
Her imperious tone has me ducking my face under the spray—if I drown, maybe my erection will go away?
No dice.
“What do you mean, anyway?”
“The shower has become our home away from home.” She laughs but when she folds her arms across her chest and doesn’t move away from the door, I correct, “Or maybe you’re imprisoning me, katyonok?”
That smile of hers I love, the wicked one, gleams in her eyes. “Da, you’re my prisoner because I don’t think my husband wants me,” she says sweetly. “He let me sleep on my wedding night. Maybe you know someone who could help instead.”
“My ego couldn’t have stood you falling asleep while I fucked you.”
Her lips part. “So, it’s a ‘you’ problem?”
“Isn’t it always, zaya?”
“You’re smarter than people think, aren’t you, husband?”
“You included?”
“No. I didn’t underestimate you. I think you underestimate me though.”
“Lies. But anyone would need to sleep after the kind of interrogation you endured.” Turning off the shower, I grab her hand and lift it to my mouth so I can kiss her knuckles. “You needed rest. You’re injured.”
“I’m not injured. It’s tender, that’s all. And, what I need, is you.”
She wets her lips when I snag one of her fingers with my teeth and slip it into my mouth. “More lies. You needed sleep.”
“I need my husband.”
I let my tongue trickle around the digit, swirling and sucking on it until her pelvis dips backward into the glass screen. “Are you lying to me, kotik? Don’t you think you should go back to bed?”
“No! Not unless you’re in it.”
“Maybe you’re just bad at lying to me.”
“I’ll get better with time.”
Okay, I spoke too soon.
I bark out a laugh. “If you say so. I think I’ll always be able to read you like a book.”
“You’ll be my first port of call when I need to practice.”
“Ah, but you forget, I can always test the source.” I nip her fingertip. Watch her eyes soften. Her body turn languid, the tension from my teasing fading.
Her breath hitches and, this time, she forgets our bickering. “Y-Yes.”
“You’ll let me?”
“You set a date.”
“You’re the control freak.”
“I’m not.”
“If you say so, pchelka.”
When I release her hand, she pouts. Her brow furrows as I switch on the water again. Then, she jerks in surprise when I step forward, tug her into me, then shove us both under the shower spray.
She squeals and slams her fists against my chest as I call out, “Sorry, didn’t I mention that it was ice cold?”
“Why are you showering in cold water?” she shrieks at me, looking no less than a drowned cat with her hair plastered to her cheeks.
I band my arms around her, holding her tighter, closer. “Why do you think?”
The water temperature becomes a thing of the past as she gapes at me. Then, she wiggles. “Oh.”
She presses her forehead to my chest in complete surrender, and I take pity on her by gently nudging the water to something that doesn’t resemble a Siberian winter.
She shivers against me as the heat warms her through, then she tilts her head back. “Why?”
“Because you were kidnapped, zaya. The last thing you need is my dick carving out space in your back or side or stomach.”
Her lips pout. “Maybe that’s exactly what I need.”
“Doubtful.”
“Are you telling me what I want and don’t want, husband?”
“I wouldn’t dare.” As those pouting lips purse, I drop a kiss on them. “You were hurt. By other men. I’d never want you to associate them with me.”
She slaps a hand against my ass, making me jump. “Do you think I’d have married you if I was at all scared of you?” Fire leaps in those beautiful chestnut irises. “I am not my mother. Nor my sisters. I make my own decisions. I chose you, Maxim. Do you understand me?”
I pump my hips. “I understand. Perfectly. But there is a time and a place—”
With an impatient yelp, she grabs a hold of my hair and pushes my head down. Like that, her mouth is on mine. The connection flairs into existence and it’s as if I can breathe again.
She’s here.
She’s safe.
She wants me.
She doesn’t hate me.
She still craves this. Us.
She fucking chose me.
I plow into her mouth, diving deep, never wanting to come up for air as I thrust my tongue against hers. She fights back. Never giving me quarter. Never allowing me to rest on my laurels.
And if this kiss doesn’t sum her up perfectly, I don’t know what does.
Her hands release their hold on my head, but they shift so her nails can dig into my back. I hiss into her mouth as she scrapes me up, leaving marks. Hard enough for me to know she’s purposely doing it. That there’ll be welts there in the morning.
I groan at the thought and pin her to the shower stall door. She hitches her leg against my hip and I hold it there, wanting her dependent on me for balance. She tips her pelvis forward then back, over and over, rubbing against me.
Her pussy is slick and slippery as she slides over me, seeking her pleasure, hunting it down so she can claim it for herself.
When she tenses, her teeth catch my bottom lip and she bites down, tugging on it as she finds her release.
The pain sends life through my nerve endings. The jolt a reminder that this is what it feels like to live, not just to survive or to eke out an existence. To thrive.
Blood washes through my mouth. The bitter tang of iron has her eyes popping open and I realize she’s surprised to taste it.
She doesn’t back off, though.
Anxiety doesn’t flair in her eyes.
If anything, she reaches up, presses her thumb to hold my lip down, then swipes her tongue over the wounds she made. Lapping the beads of blood like the kitten I call her.
Shuddering, I give her more of my weight. Looming over her. Letting her feel the size difference between us. Allowing her to see what she does to me.
Eventually, she releases a satisfied hum. Then she presses a soft kiss to my lips. “Time for bed?”
“Time for bed,” I agree gruffly.
Once I’m sure she’s standing on her own two feet and won’t fall, I pull back, then groan when she snags a hold of my dick and shapes it with another satisfied hum.
I need to hear that hum at least three times a day until I die.
With the water switched off, she squeaks as I haul her into me and sweep her off her feet.
“I’m wet!” she squeals with a happy laugh.
My, “Not wet enough,” earns me a soft slap of her hand against my shoulder.
But that smile… it’s back.
Blyad.
As I pad into the bedroom, I gently lower her to the mattress.
She’s prettier than a picture. Hell, prettier than any dream I had of her finally being mine.
Her cheeks blush and a soft wave of pink crests her chest and the upper slopes of her breasts as I grab my cock and begin to stroke it.
“Show me you want me, kotik.”
Her lips part, but with a soft and happy hum that tells me she thought the night was over, she parts her legs. Her fingers trickle along her stomach, smoothing down her hip and to that soft space between.
With her gaze locked on my hand, she drifts farther down then stills when she finds her clit. A shaky sigh escapes her, and I can tell she’s still riding the wave from her previous orgasm and that she’s sensitive. Still, it encourages her to relax.
She slumps into the soft pillows and begins to strum her clit. I take note, needing to ensure that I hit the right spots when I touch her. A cry keens from her as she finds a rhythm, and then her other hand decides to join in—by circling her slit then thrusting two fingers inside.
A shudder wracks her spine. This entire thing is without artifice. It’s genuine. Purely Victoria. Every sensitive spot, she exploits until her moans and cries morph into one.
Her eyes glitter at me as I pump my cock through my fist.
“That pussy’s hungry for my dick, korovka?” I croon.
“It is. It is. I need you, Max.”
My jaw works. “Are you wet?”
“So wet.”
“Wet enough to take me?”
“Da.” Clenching her ass, she surges onto the balls of her feet in a modified bridge. It lets her thrust those fingers deeper. When she pulls free, she surprises me by offering them to me.
Snagging her wrist, I hold her fingers to my lips and suck on them. Licking each one. Tasting her. Savoring her.
“So sweet.” I nip the pad of one finger before sucking it clean.
At my teasing, she keens and mewls, body rippling as she frigs her clit.
Unable to bear it any longer, I snag a hold of both wrists and pin them above her head.
Her back arches as she tugs, experimentally, against my hold. I earn a shriek from her as, in a sharp twist, I roll us on the mattress so that she’s above me.
Looking at her, all her curves on display, her tits quivering from the sudden increase in her breathing, I grab her hips then tug her higher on her knees.
“What are you doing?”
“I think you know, Victoria. I need to taste my wife.”
She jerks in surprise when I urge her to crawl over me. “Maxim?”
“Relax, kroshka.” That wins me another shriek as I make her sit flush with my face.
The scent of her pussy is sweet. So sweet. And wet enough to substantiate those moans she made earlier.
Loving her responsiveness, loving that even though I sense lingering notes of shyness, she’s eager for our union, I shower her with my delight in her.
Sliding my tongue through her folds, I hum as I find her clit and gently kiss it before lashing it swiftly. Her thighs grip my head while her hands tumble onto the headboard.
“Oh, fuck.”
I keep the pressure on her clit until her hips buck forward and she releases the softest, almost noiseless moan.
If I didn’t know how inexperienced she was, this is my proof.
Her body jerks—it doesn’t roll with pleasure.
Instead, she acts like I’m zapping her with a Taser.
Retreating, I let my tongue veer down, tickling and teasing until I find her slit. Circling it makes her shiver, but when I nip on one of her folds, she yelps then sits higher again.
Her silence, when Victoria is rarely silent, has me settling my hands on her hips. “Pchelka?”
“Am I wet enough yet?”