48. I’m about to rock his world
FORTY-EIGHT
I’M ABOUT TO ROCK HIS WORLD
My heart is racing too hard for that short sprint up the stairs, but it’s been put through the ringer in the past couple of hours so I’ll forgive it this time.
When he growls my name, I feel it in my core. That low baritone, mellow and smooth, sends ripples throughout my whole being.
Because he’s a half-staircase behind me, I dart into a room he won’t suspect.
His heavy footfalls clue me into his presence on the landing as I deliberate over whether to keep the boxers on or off…
I honestly didn’t expect this reaction to me stealing his underwear. But maybe that’s inexperience talking? I figured shirts were a thing. I’ve seen Brennan react to Camille like that when, Roman hitched on her hip, she putters around their apartment in his discarded shirt, but underwear?
“Victoria,” Maxim calls, crooning my name.
The goose bumps it triggers has me making a split-second decision—I keep the boxers on.
Then, I dart over to the corner of the room that’s usually hidden in the shadows and slide into my favorite heels. After, I approach the pole, falling into a position that’s as comfortable as breathing to me at this point.
Swinging around it as I gain momentum, I let my hands adjust, my thighs adapt, and I tumble into my favorite routine.
I’ve dreamed of being caught by him.
Of surprising him.
Gripping the pole tightly with my inner thighs and waist, I twist my hip backward to lock in the hold. Arching my back and activating my core, I make sure my toes are pointed once I straighten my passive leg and then arch both arms so he can see my tits.
Perfect timing too—he steps into the room then freezes when he catches sight of me.
I blink a couple times when he flicks on the light.
“Victoria.”
Fuck.
I don’t want to admit that I pushed Camille into teaching me this stuff for that reaction right there.
I did it for great upper body strength and to tighten my core, too, but…
God.
Twirling around the pole, I hook one thigh around it, tucking it into my knee as I pull my ankle toward my body while allowing my other leg to drape vertically. Pressing my shin against the metal, I lift my pelvic floor toward it, tense my abs, and then reach my hand toward the wall.
He steps closer.
Closer.
His gaze locked on me. Entranced.
That’s what I always wanted.
Not just his love. His fascination.
Not just someone to protect.
Not just a woman to bed and to breed.
This.
Here.
Now.
His wife.
His woman.
Pushing momentum into my twirling, I pull my body into a vertical split, straightening my back leg while sliding my foot down, ensuring my pelvic floor is up and tucked against the pole.
Pressing a kiss into my shin, I swing around a couple times, enjoying the tangibility of his gaze on me.
It’s like a caress.
One I want to experience every day for the rest of my life.
Transitioning into my next move, I shoot him a smile, satisfied that he’s suitably distracted while focused entirely on me.
Stretching my arms higher so that my hands can grip the upper limits of the pole, I wrap my leg around it while straightening the back one. I twirl like a ballerina in a music box, making sure we lock eyes as I hold my arms out for him, imploring him to approach.
He obeys.
Steps close enough that I can smell his aftershave.
“Victoria,” he snarls as I pull my left ankle toward my body while pushing against the pole. All the while, I’m twirling, holding the provocative stance until he jeers, “I thought you wanted to be a bottom.”
“We have to work out like anyone else,” I taunt back, faintly winded.
I’m not even sure it has anything to do with the inverted or aerial positions. Just the fact that I can see the very prominent bulge he’s packing.
“Dismount. Now.”
“Or?” I purr.
“Else.”
Breathlessly, I do as he bids then squeak when he scoops me into his arms without letting my feet touch the floor and carries me to the spare bed.
One second, I’m wearing his boxers.
The next, they’re stripped clear and flung away.
“You do these things to torment me, don’t you?”
I don’t know why, but I fixate on the lock of hair that tumbles over his forehead.
It’s a visual manifestation of his loss in control.
I bathe in it.
Hell, no. I luxuriate in it.
His fingers grab my thighs and he parts them, propping the backs against his chest, until my feet, in those hooker heels, settle on either side of his head. Hands dip between my legs and my back arches as they slide over my pussy.
“Oh, fuck!”
No measured and controlled pressure here. Just hard and fast caresses as he tests my readiness.
I pout when his fingers disappear, but the sound of the zipper rolling down is the best music I’ve heard all day.
I tip my chin forward, glancing off his heaving chest, and watch as he frees his cock.
A part of me expects him to just thrust into me.
But he doesn’t.
He lays his cock on my slit, then pushes down on the head as he thrusts his hips, rocking over my clit like we have all the time in the world.
My eyes flare wide in immediate response.
“Oh!” I whimper.
That’s goood.
So different than his fingers or mine. Blunter and softer, yet harder too. A strange pressure that has me writhing against the bed.
“You like that, pchelka?”
“God, it feels so good, Maxim.”
Maybe I’m playing with fire, but my fingers toy with my nipples, pinching them lightly.
I yelp when he bats them away then groan deeper as he bends over to lick and suck on one.
The pressure shifts again. The thrusts become more localized.
Harder and faster. His hips pump until my vision turns hazy as my orgasm threatens to pull me under.
“So close,” I keen, my free hand now stroking through his hair, adoring the silk against my skin, the crispness a sensory delight that makes me shiver.
His shirt against my torso.
The blend of different fabrics rubbing my inner thighs.
I can even feel the sharp, biting cold of his zipper when he pushes down harder and—
I’m done.
Gone.
Drifting away on a sweet and shimmery cloudburst of light summer rain.
My eyes flutter to a close as I savor the delicate pleasure, one that makes my fingertips tingle, and then they open—immediately—when the tip of his dick pops into me.
Just the head. Just enough for me to be reminded of how thick he is. How it feels to take him. How warm he is and how tight I am.
I hated our discord, but there’s no denying it feels good to have him inside me.
Those days apart let me heal up, something I needed more than I thought.
There’s no rawness, just that pervading pinch of tightness as he forges a path inside me.
“You’re so thick,” I mumble, as, fully healed or not, my pussy struggles to accept him.
Maybe it’s this position?
I don’t know, but it makes my skin feel stretched, as if I’m too big for my body.
My nails drag over his scalp as he switches breasts and teases the other one instead.
“Maxim,” I moan.
But he’s quiet. In fact, not just quiet. Silent.
The whole thing comes as a bitter shock.
“Maxim,” I whine as his cock just keeps on coming. “Talk to me. Please.”
“What do you want me to say, kotik?” His voice is so guttural that it quivers along my spinal cord like my very own earthquake.
My bottom lip trembles as his fingertips burrow into the fleshy part of my upper thigh.
“You’re so big.”
Grateful that he’s in control enough to sense that’s a complaint, not a compliment, I hiss as he plucks me forward and does that thing he did last time—tips my hips up.
“Ohh.”
He sinks in with more ease now.
I squirm, still feeling full but experiencing less of that pinch from earlier.
When he begs, “Take it, kroshka,” and his zipper and the front of his fly comes into close quarters with my inner thighs, I know he’s all the way in.
His size, the sheer fullness, steals the air from my lungs.
With my hips tilted forward, I can appreciate it and crave more.
I use my hold on his hair to wrench his head back.
A rumble of annoyance filters through his chest, but I press a kiss to his mouth. Then, I snag his bottom lip between my teeth and bite it. “MOVE.”
Lust simmers in his eyes.
I see the flickering flames stirring from the embers and know I’ll burn in them.
Forever.
And his hips finally start to move.
Slow, shallow pumps at first.
Ones that steal my breath as he rubs against tissues that are newly awoken to the pleasure my man can give me.
It’s different than how I figured it’d be. More intense. More intimate. I guess I knew that, rationally speaking, but I love the weight of him above me, the heat of him, and that one secret point of connection that will tie us together forever.
My eyelids shutter as I savor the new sensations.
I don’t expect to come again.
Not when he already got me off and I can feel how he’s straining to find release too.
I embrace his pleasure, satisfied that I can give him this—
“Maxim,” I moan when his thumb finds my clit.
He bites my nipple, harder than before, then rakes his teeth over the tip. Until now, I guess he’d been sucking it? I don’t know. But it was different to this.
I whine with the pain of it, but it’s in such a sharp contrast to the pleasure of his thumb over my clit and the slow and steady thrusts that the thrill of need overtakes me once more.
When he pulls back, I pout. “Maxim!”
He grunts something I don’t understand—whether it’s in Latgalian or Russian or even English, I’m not sure. But suddenly, he grabs my legs, crosses them at the knee, then settles them back against his chest.
“Oh, my god!” I cry out as he yanks my ass up and against his upper thighs.
There’s no slow and shallow anymore. That’s out of the window.
Hard and fast thrusts are the order of the night, and the exquisite pressure has me writhing against the sheets again.
Each time his cock drives into me, he rubs against that soft pad he discovered that first time.
I scream his name when release hits.
I can’t contain it.
Don’t want to.
I let it out, explode as he forces me to come, hitting that spot over and over and over until I’m pretty sure I’m going insane.
The short, sharp scream morphs into an endless wail that marries with his growl. The speed of his thrusting varies, and how he forcibly drags my ass into him has me clawing at my hair as he uses me to find his own pleasure.
Roots stinging from the abuse, I force my hands to the sheet so I can tug and pull on the fabric instead. It’s too much, much too much.
I didn’t know I was sobbing until he presses his mouth to mine. “Kotik, all is well.”
His lips trace over the curve of my cheeks, tongue trailing over the tears, sweeping them away as I continue to shiver in reaction to my orgasm.
My legs are trembling. Literally trembling. My muscles contract and pulse of their own volition like they’ve been hit with an electric shock.
“I-I can’t make them stop,” I rasp, embarrassed but also concerned.
“So sensitive,” he returns, running his nose over mine before settling a tender kiss on my lips. “So perfect.”
He rolls us over until I’m on top of him, and his hands rub my still-shaking legs.
I huddle against his chest, my nose burrowed into his throat.
The soft caresses, that gentle stroking, the sensation of being utterly wrung out from pleasure have me sagging deeper into his hold.
Throw in the fact that I feel safe, that nothing and no one will touch me while I’m in his arms, and my limbs turn to Jell-O with my subconscious demanding I rest.
“Tired now.”
He chuckles. “Sleep, kotik. Sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up.”
Who am I to argue with what sounds like a promise?