Chapter 26
Gustav
The back corner of the library is colder than the rest of the building, a pocket of silence behind the tall shelves. Dust floats in narrow slices of light. Her footsteps echo faintly behind me. When she enters the corridor of books, I turn and scan both directions.
I grab her waist and push her back against the shelves. The thud is soft, muffled by old leather-bound volumes. She gasps. Her hands press to my chest to steady herself. She is warm. My control snaps.
My mouth crashes onto hers.
I kiss her like a starving man, like a man who died and came back hungry for only one thing. Her lips part and the taste of her hits me hard. Sweet. Soft. Too addictive. She makes a small sound, trying to catch up to the force of me, but I have no patience.
Hell, I had a hard-on all through lunch just because she sat close enough for her breath to warm my neck.
She kisses back, but I can feel the hesitation in the way her hands tremble. How tongue doesn’t invade. She is holding back. I don’t care.
I lift her shirt with both hands, dragging the fabric up, yanking down her bra, and exposing her breasts to the air.
The moment I see them, full in the dim light, I feel something wild flare through me.
I lower my head and take her nipple into my mouth, sucking deep and slow, then harder.
She shivers, fingers burying in my hair.
Her breasts are perfect. The size fits my palms exactly, and her nipples tighten beautifully under my tongue. Her soft sounds vibrate through me, stoking every dark desire I have been shoving down since the yacht.
“You are gorgeous,” I murmur against her skin. “I love your nipples.” I bite gently, then soothe the spot with my tongue. “I love this color. This softness. Every part of you.”
She moans, louder than she intends. I feel her arch toward me, offering more of herself. Her body doesn’t lie. She wants this. She wants me.
My hunger drops lower.
I sink to my knees.
She stiffens. “Gustav. Someone could—”
I look up at her from the floor. Her cheeks are flushed pink, eyes wide, lips parted. Her fear, her hesitation, her desire... perfect.
“No one is coming,” I say. “Only you.”
Her breath falters.
I hook my fingers into her waistband and yank her pants down with no grace whatsoever. They drop to her thighs, baring her small white panties.
Good God.
My pulse punches against my ribs. I stroke a knuckle over the cloth, pressing just beside her entrance. She jerks, gasping.
I do it again, slower. She is already wet enough that the fabric darkens.
She tries to close her legs, shy and flustered, but I grip her hips and force her open. I lean forward and lick her through the panties, letting my spit soak the thin barrier over her clit. Her head hits the shelf, eyes fluttering shut.
Again.
Her hips jerk forward with a desperate little grind she didn’t mean to give me.
The friction pulls another flush of wetness from her and she curses under her breath, embarrassed by how fast she is unraveling.
I grip her thighs and pin her in place, forcing her to take every slow stroke of my tongue.
Her hands fly to my hair. She pulls. Not to stop me.
To get me closer. To make me ruin her faster.
She is shaking.
Grinding.
Losing her mind with every slow drag despite the cotton barrier.
“Say my name,” I tell her, voice low.
“Oh, Gustav...” It spills out of her mouth, shaky and submissive.
“Beg for it.”
She swallows. Her fingers clutch the shelf behind her. She cannot hold herself upright. “Please... I want... I need...”
I laugh softly against her, breath hot on her soaked panties. “Tell me you missed me.”
Her thighs tremble. Her voice is barely there. “I did.”
“And our wedding night?” I ask, sliding a finger up the center seam, pressing just enough to make her gasp. “Do you miss that?”
Her breath hitches. Her body arches, desperate. “It was the best night of my life.”
A rare, painful warmth burns through my chest.
“And you wish I was that man,” I murmur.
She nods helplessly.
“I am the same man, baby,” I assure.
I hook one finger under the delicate cotton and tug it aside just enough to see the shine of her arousal.
The sight hits me like a blow. She gets like this for me.
Even when she tries to hold back. Even when she thinks she hates me.
My mouth waters. Her smell rises warm and sweet.
I press my tongue to her slit and drag upward, savoring her taste as if it were something forbidden I waited years for.
My middle finger sinks into her, fast and deep.
It’s all a reward.
She cries out, biting her lip too late. Her knees buckle, so I grip her ass and hold her up while I thrust my finger deeper. Her g-spot swells, and she clenches down, squeezing me tight like she is thanking me for every stroke.
I kiss her little clit sensually.
“You are so perfect, devushka,” I tell her. “Made for me.”
Her breath stutters. Her hips roll uncontrollably. The noises she makes are intoxicating. Raw. Needy. Too real.
I swirl my tongue on her throbbing knot of nerves while I finger fuck her. She moans, shakes, gasps.
Her climax hits with a violent shudder. She tries to pull away, overwhelmed, but I grip her hips and hold her exactly where I want her. Her legs spasm around my shoulders. Her whimper turns into a gasp. Then another. Her pleasure gushes warm and messy against my tongue and I lap it up greedily.
She trembles all the way through it, whimpering, legs giving out. I guide her down gently, letting her fold to the floor, her back leaning against the shelves.
Her eyes open slowly.
She looks up at me.
Then, her eyes flash, utterly feral. She rips down her pants the rest of the way and straddles me faster than I can react. My back presses against the bookshelf as I balance myself. She claws at my pants, undoing them and grabbing my cock like she is running out of time.
And I watch aa her naked hips lower onto my shaft. I groan, because her pussy strangles my length, because it feels like I’m home with her, because that goddamn look in her eyes is sexy as hell.
Because she dare touch me like I’m hers.
She rises and falls on my cock fast. Fuck, it’s a sight, and a relief to see her take and enjoy something. Anything in Russia, and it happens to be me.
She pants heavy, working hard as she moves.
Ger hand presses to my chest as she tires and exhales, “Oh Gustav, you...” she inhales sharply, “...you feel so good. Mmm.”
I half smile, grab her hips, and help her out, fucking her from below.
She slows, and her eyelids close as the euphoria builds.
I don’t know why that’s becoming my favorite thing — seeing her pleasure.
I never cared whether the women climaxed, let alone enjoyed the experience. But with her, it’s a drug.
I swirl small circles on her clit, and she moans, raspy and shaky. Damn, I love it.
“That’s it, baby,” I say. “Cum on my cock. I want to see my girl shake like you do.”
In my peripheral, I catch movement. Someone is nearby. I say nothing, not wanting to interrupt her approaching orgasm.
Or mine.
I’m close. I flex my cock, holding back. Just get her there. I pump faster, thumb rubbing faster.
She shatters, expelling a raw ethereal moan.
Fuck me. My head drops back as I explode inside of her in an epic moment I hadn’t planned.
She falls forward, forehead to my chest, heaving.
I side-eye as a woman appears in the row. Her eyes blow wide and she silently gasps at the image of us on the floor. I smile and hold Peighton’s head down gently until the woman pads away.
Thankfully, she didn’t notice the woman. I don’t want anything to sully this moment for her.
She catches her breath, and then she says it.
“I don’t want to love you. Why do you have to be good at that? At touching me? You’re so perfect Gustav, but you’re not.”
Something in me cracks. Not a soft crack. A fracture that runs deep and stings. I feel it behind my ribs, sharp and unwelcome.
I stare at her.
She stares back with a light sheen on her skin. Her chest rises and falls, still recovering. Her lips tremble like she regrets the confession already. But it is out. It hangs between us like smoke, like a spell that changes everything.
I reach out. I brush my thumb along her cheekbone. Her eyes lower, like she is bracing herself for punishment.
But punishment is not what I want.
I want her.
All of her.
Even the parts that hate how much she feels.
“You already love me,” I whisper, voice gravel-soft. “And it terrifies you.”
Her breath shakes.
She doesn’t deny it.
What she doesn’t know is I am far more frightened than her. The voices have retreated. My body is on a cloud. And my heart... it aches to keep her this close.
Shit.
Is my obsession worsening?