Chapter 29
Peighton
“You look lovely on your knees,” Gustav says in a gravelly tone. “But I am not stupid, moyá mishka. Knees can be a shield just as much as a gift.”
I look up, trying to hide the way my nerves shake.
Gustav studies me the way a storm approaches a coastline, as if deciding how violently to break me apart. There is heat in his stare, but darkness swirls underneath it. I can never quite read him, yet my heart flutters hard enough that it makes me draw in a long breath.
He leans back in a chair and his gaze drags over me. Christmas lights throwing little sparks of color across his chiseled face. Her narrows his eyes.
“My devushka. My wife. My problem… Let’s fix it. Cheek on the floor,” he says.
I fidget with her fingers, trying to look composed. “I have another present for you,” I suggest instead.
He nearly laughs. “You think I will let you distract me with your mouth when you have not answered my question.”
My shoulders tighten.
“Gustav, I told you. No, I don’t. I am yours.”
“Mm, but you said it too fast.” he rises, towering over me. “I want to hear the truth, unguarded.”
My throat bobs.
“Cheek on floor,” he repeats, firmer.
My breath stalls. I lower myself, spine curving, bottom lifting.
My cheek and palms touch the old stone floor, the surface cold and rough.
It feels like a position meant for someone else.
It’s for someone who can be shameless, someone experienced.
But the sound of his breath thickening behind me sends a strange bloom of heat low in my stomach.
I hear the rustle of fabric. Then the sharp rip of elastic sliding down my thighs. Cold air hits my bare skin.
His fingers brush over my hips, light but claiming, and I swear the touch travels all the way through me. Shame floods my cheeks, mixing with a pulse of raw need. I hate how my body responds to him, how just being exposed like this makes me throb with want.
“I will ask again,” he murmurs. “Do you desire another man?”
It isn’t really a question. It’s a knife held under my ribs. I suck in a breath and answer fast, because the idea of losing him terrifies me more than the cold floor or his anger.
“No. I want you. Only you.”
His hand slides lower, slow enough to make me shake. The head of his cock presses to my entrance and my hips twitch back without permission, lifting my cheek off the floor. Before I can gasp, his palm cracks across my ass. The sound snaps through the room like fire.
“Stay still.”
I drop my cheek back to the stone, face burning. Embarrassment tightens my throat, but arousal trickles down my inner thigh. I squeeze my eyes shut. I want him. God, I want him so badly it frightens me.
His crown nudges me again, deliberate and wicked. The warmth and firmness presses in and I clench down, as if that will feed him into me. He doesn’t. He only gives me the head and it’s almost cruel.
“Gustav, please…”
“Please what.”
“Please. More,” I breathe, my voice cracking on desperation.
He pulls out completely, then drags his tip along the middle of my slit, up and down, slow torture. Each pass makes me whimper, my thighs easing further apart in surrender. My arousal slicks over me, hot and obscene.
I make a low, frustrated sound.
“Is my wife a slut for me?”
“Yes.” The word spills out rough and honest. “Please.”
I try to push back again, but this time he catches my hip and holds me still, barely letting his tip press in before withdrawing. A tease. A reminder of who decides.
“You do not get what you want until I get what I want,” I say. “I asked a simple question.”
“I answered.”
“Not in a way I believe.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to stay still. Trying to behave.
“Hm, Peighton. I’ve been watching everything since I arrived at St. Andrews. Do you know men stare at you? Some for far too long.”
“Wha—What?”
He leans over me, chest to my back, his cock resting heavy against my hips, his mouth at my ear. “You have no idea what it does to me, thinking of another man watching you. Imagining his hands where mine are. His mouth where mine has been.”
“I would not let any other man touch me,” I whisper. My voice is small. Fierce. “I swear it.”
His fingers slide lower, finding my clit. He brushes it once, just enough to make me jerk. My hips rock, trying to chase the pressure, but I keep my cheek pressed to the floor. He circles my clit slowly, and I start to melt, feeling my body betray me.
He murmurs against my ear, “You want to convince me you are virtuous? Trustworthy? Truthful? Yet, you look like this under me. A temptation that would ruin any man.”
I groan, embarrassed and desperate, but it’s my body that answers before my mouth does. My hips sway, a tiny movement, trying to grind herself on his hand without disobeying the order to stay still. My need sings through every twitch of muscle.
He sits back, and his fingers leave my clit for a moment. I make a broken sound of protest.
But then—
His blunt tip presses at my opening and he pushes inside me, painfully slow.
My mouth falls open. A moan scrapes out of my chest. Pleasure mixes with humiliation until I can’t tell the difference.
His hands clamp my hips, fingers bruising, pulling me back on him.
My cheek stays pressed to the cold floor as he moves, filling me in a way that feels like surrender.
“Oh God,” I breathe.
“Shh,” he soothes as he pumps in long, lazy strokes. His hand drags up, over the curve of my ass. Then he spits lightly and smears it with my thumb over the tight ring of muscle there. I tense.
“Wait,” I breathe. “What are you—”
“Do you trust me?”
My breathing’s loud and ragged. Then I nod, cheek still planted on the floor. Because I want to trust him. “Yes.”