3. Emma
Emma
The heat of his tongue lapping over my skin wakes something in me I didn’t know existed.
My back arches away from the chair as I reach up, tangle my fingers in his hair, and draw his head closer. Russ growls, the sound muffled against my breasts as he buries his face deeper, licking and nipping now.
Every one of my senses is heightened. I can smell the chocolate, taste the cherries on my tongue, feel the graze of stubble as he drags his face higher to pull my head back and suck on my neck.
A whimper slips out.
I should be embarrassed, but judging by the brush of his iron-hard erection against my arm, it’s another sound that Russ likes.
Fingers tightening, I give a firm tug and pull him away.
Our eyes lock.
We’re both breathing heavily, dinnerware ajar on the table from our reckless movements. And then the moment breaks.
I stand as Russ reaches for me and wraps an arm around my waist, pulling me close. His mouth again, that sinful mouth, covers my own, spearing between my lips in a way that is so demanding it makes my knees weak.
He tastes like wine and chocolate. Another small sound slips out of me. When I press closer to him, suddenly it’s all too much.
“The dress,” I gasp.
Russ growls again, his hands fisting in the wine-red skirt. “Fuck the dress.”
No, I think. That’s not what I meant, but a zing of elation shivers through me at his words.
What I meant was that there’s too much clothing between us. Too many layers with this structured bustier and waterfall of a skirt.
In one astonishing move, Russ tightens his hold on my hips and heaves me onto the dining table. Plates clatter to the ground. A candle sits dangerously close to my hair, and Russ reaches out and snuffs the flame by wrapping his massive hand around it.
“The staff—” I murmur against his demanding mouth, worried that they’ll have heard the plates breaking and come to see what the ruckus is.
“They know better,” he says, voice like honey and something darker, something that sends a shiver of recognition through me.
Be careful.
A part of my brain reaches desperately for facts. For the small things throughout dinner, the questions, the way he looked at me with those pale eyes. All the things that set off alarm bells in my head.
I shouldn’t have come.
But with Russ’s hands rucking up my dress and his pale silver-blonde head disappearing between my thighs, it’s hard to think of another way I want this night to go.
His mouth is hot against my core, even through the silk panties I wore. I’m not sure if the dampness is from how turned on I got the moment his tongue dragged across my skin or from the way he’s sucking at my clit through the delicate cloth, making me cry out.
Legs splayed obscenely on the table, all I can do is tip my head back and try to breathe as overwhelming sensations crash over me.
A man has never, ever devoured me like this.
His fingers dig into my hips before deftly rending the silk. I hear it, but barely register it, caring only that his mouth is on me now, his tongue dipping between my folds to drag a long line up to my clit, where he sucks hard enough to make me jerk.
“Stay,” he commands when my hips come off the table. His hand presses down on my stomach, and I only have a moment to be self-conscious about the extra little weight there before he’s towering over me again, one knee on the table as he climbs up.
“This,” he purrs, “looks absolutely delicious on you, Emma. But I’m in the mood for something…sweeter.”
The sound of ripping fabric fills the room as Russ Smith tears through the very dress he owns and bought. His face is set, lips still wet with my slick, glasses gone, hair mussed.
“What—” I barely manage to gasp.
His hands move to his belt, the clack of the metal sending a thrill through me.
“This is your last chance, l’vyonak. Tell me to stop, or part those pretty little lips for me.”
My lips do part, but not just out of desire.
L’vyonak. A Russian word. I can’t translate it, my brain is too scrambled, but my toes buzz with warning even as Russ frees his impressive erection and pumps himself slowly.
“Perfect,” he murmurs.
And it’s now that I can hear it—the slight tinge of an accent. Barely there, but…but…
Everything goes fuzzy as he touches me.
His hands glide up my bare thighs, scrunch my waist as he growls, as if savoring the handfuls of flesh beneath the luxurious fabric. Those pale eyes land on my breasts again, ready to spill from the bust, and he carefully climbs up my body.
Kneeling on either side of my waist, he’s close enough for my mouth to water as he fists his cock again.
A bead of pre-cum wets the tip.
I lick my lips.
“Perfect.”
When he presses the head to my lips, it’s warm and already throbbing. My lips part and he slips inside deftly with a grunt, controlling the slow speed that I swallow him despite the strange angle.
My pussy pulses with want.
With his pants gone and his shirt open now, I can see the way his muscles bunch. For an older man, he’s impressively in shape. Abs jump under my scrabbling fingers as I try to find purchase, holding myself as he pumps into my mouth slowly.
“Good girl. You take it so well, darling. Your mouth is so soft. Is your pussy this soft for me? This wet?”
A moan barely slips around his shaft. He removes himself with a wet pop, eyes suddenly blazing as he vaults off the table, grabs me by the hips, and pulls me to the very edge.
“Wide for me, darling. No, I don’t care about the vase. Knock it over, throw it, I don’t care. I just want to see you spread for me. Good. Just like that.”
His thick fingers spread my folds as my thighs shake.
I’m gripping the tattered remains of the skirt, aware that he’s seeing all of me right now in ways I wasn’t prepared for.
I can hear him cursing quietly, the wet sound of his fist around his dick as he pumps himself more, leans in, taps his cock against my clit.
“Mmm—please.”
The begging slips out of me.
Russ’ eyes blaze as he smirks at me over the ruin of the dining room table.
“Please, what, l’vyonak?”
There it is again. I should ask—or at the very least, should remember. But all I can think about is the tension in my body, the pulsing deep in my core that I want someone to take away, to satisfy for once.
“Please…fuck me. Please.”
“You ask so nicely,” he grunts, positioning himself and digging his fingers into the meat of my thighs.
When he presses inside, the stretch almost burns. But it’s so, so good. I can’t remember the last time I felt this full.
All of my senses narrow to this feeling. The press of his hot hips against my ass, his hand on my stomach as he pumps into me slowly.
“Fuck, that’s good,” I whisper, earning a chuckle from the stranger who suddenly seems feral and dangerous as he ruts into me.
“This is what you want, isn’t it, Emma? This is why you came here?”
All I can do is make a sound of agreement. Mindlessly, my hands have come up to squeeze my tits, and when Russ notices, he chastises me.
“No, darling. You’re all mine tonight. Mine to touch, mine to savor.”
I let out a surprised yelp as he pulls me down the table, wraps an arm around my waist, and sets my feet on the floor.
My knees are so weak I think I’ll drop.
“Turn,” he orders, and when I don’t move fast enough, his hand slaps my ass. Another yelp slips out, and a gush of hot slick melts through my folds. “Turn.”
Obeying, I turn and stare across the decimated table, placing my palms on the dark wood. Russ moves behind me, presses a hand into my lower back to bend me over at the angle he wants, jerks his hips once.
It’s so jarring, so satisfying, that I cry out.
“You’re mine tonight, Emma. All mine.”
“Yours,” I gasp as he rams into me again, a greedy hand coming up to tear away the front of the dress.
No one has ever touched me like this.
Owned me like this.
His other hand delves between my legs, finding my clit deftly and putting enough pressure on it to make me whimper. Not rubbing or tweaking, just pressure—just the sensation that makes my pussy throb around his cock as he continues to pound into me from behind.
“You’re going to come like this,” he says, his hand traveling from my breasts to my throat.
I take a breath, momentarily wondering if I’ll be able to take another.
This is not a smart position to be in—getting fucked by a stranger in a mansion, an expensive dress in tatters around me, no one aware of where I am.
And somehow that heightens every other sensation.
His hand squeezes just lightly enough, the other slapping my clit as his cock hits that perfect spot, and the beginning of an orgasm makes me tremble.
“That’s right, Emma. Just like that. Come on my cock—let me feel how tight and wet you are for me.”
His words bleed into nonsense as I’m overcome with waves of pleasure. They pulse from my core outward, making my vision go white, a sound so feral and unguarded coming out of me that I don’t recognize myself.
Seconds later I feel hot liquid spill down my inner thighs and realize that he’s come, too. He’s breathing hard against me, chest against my back.
“Come,” he murmurs when we’ve both caught our breath. “I’ll clean you up. And then we can sleep.”
* * *
The first thing I become aware of is warmth.
Heavy blankets. Cool air drifting through the partially open balcony doors. A massive bed, so big that when I roll over I don’t even feel where it might end.
The second thing is the muted sound of a television.
My eyes crack open slowly, head foggy from wine and too little sleep. For one blissfully blank second, I don’t remember where I am.
Then I feel the soreness between my legs; the delicious ache from last night.
Memory slams back all at once—his mouth, his hands, the way he touched me like he wanted to consume me whole.
I shift slightly, wincing at the tender feeling, and glance toward the flickering television mounted across the bedroom. He must be up already and probably wondering why I’m still here.
A news station is on. Some kind of political segment, a voice droning on. I almost look away.
Then my brain catches up. And my entire body locks.
No.
No fucking way.
The anchorwoman is smiling brightly beside a photo I know far too well.
Andrei.
Perfect hair, teeth, and that smile…
My stomach drops straight through the mattress.
“Colorado Attorney General candidate Andrei Cheney surprised supporters late last night with a personal announcement.”
A blonde woman appears beside him in the next still photo that comes up. She’s holding up a hand, showing off a massive ring.
My mouth falls open.
“…confirming his engagement to longtime socialite Vanessa Beaumont. Sources close to the couple say wedding planning is already underway.”
I bolt upright so fast that the sheets tangle around my legs.
“What the fuck?”