I feel him smile into my neck. “You smell fine to me.”
That’s what every girl loves to hear. Fine. Not like vanilla or roses or a fuckable scent. Fine is you’ll do for now. I rotate and put my hands on his chest. “I…would rather smell like soap.”
He stares down at me, his gaze raking my frame. “I’d rather fuck you.” And then he lifts me up, splitting my legs apart and setting me on the counter. I can’t combat him, not when his lips meet mine and his tongue skillfully slips into my mouth. It’s an eager, aggressive kiss that steals breath and puts me in his possession.
Yeah—that shower is not happening.
His movements are more rushed than usual, no slow build up. He practically tears off my shirt, my bra, shorts, panties, and he pulls off his shirt, steps out of his pants, all in between a make-out session that numbs my lips. I moan the minute his fingers graze the spot between my legs.
He covers my mouth with his palm—since we don’t live in this suite alone. I’ve found it hard to restrain noises. My mind wants to shut it down, but my body loves the climax too much, always on its own agenda.
He kneads my breast, and then pushes into me without hesitation. I shut my eyes tightly, the fullness great, but the pain…not that much. It’s less than it used to be, so I know in time, it’ll all go away. It’ll feel better.
He kisses me again, trying to distract me, trying to wrap me in more pleasure. I clutch his arms while he thrusts into me, harder than usual. I open my eyes, and he’s absorbing my body with that intensity, in the way we fit together. His cock sliding right inside—I buck up, a cry stuck in my throat.
I reach out and accidentally splash the running water from the faucet that I never turned off. Still needing support, I cling back to him, now sufficiently wetting both of us. I don’t care much. The pain is starting to dissipate as my climax nears.
I meet his penetrating grays, and it sends me over.
“Nik...I…” My toes curl, my body clenching around him.
He says something in Russian, as if I can translate. I swear he does this to torment me. He kisses my cheek and then presses me to his chest, lifting me from the counter. While his hardness still fills me, he carries me to his bedroom, setting my back…on the desk.
He pounds against me, not finished yet. A layer of sweat coats my skin and his. He keeps his hand over my mouth and uses the other hand to lift one of my legs higher.
My eyelids slowly close, drowning in the way he thumps against my body: the melodic, hard, fast rhythm. Each time he slams into me, it’s like he’s trying to expel his pent-up emotions. I realize I should’ve asked how his day was, instead of worrying about a shower.
He rocks harder, and my noise dies in his palm.
Then he pulls out—ow—still erect, and he carries me to his bed. He tosses me on the mattress, tiny and little enough to throw me around. Usually it’s fun. But tonight, I think I need to ask, “How was your day?” I pant out the words.
He gives me a look like I asked about nuclear warfare in bed. And he crawls on top of me, kissing me deeply before he grips his shaft and slides right back in. Owww. I let out an audible cry, of pain, and he combs my hair affectionately, slowing his movement, only for a second.
This position is harder for me. Regular missionary—it’s like our hips don’t align right unless I have a pillow under my ass. And he’s not putting one there. Normally, he’ll turn on his side, making it more comfortable and easier.
My breath is shallow, and I close my eyes and just relax more. If he doesn’t want to talk yet, then I’d rather this be pleasurable. After another minute or two, he hits a peak. He’s gentler when he pulls out of me this time. So I think he’ll finally exhale, slow down, and hold me.
But he steps off the bed and yanks me to the edge. My heart hammers. And he lowers his head between my legs, kissing the spot—holy…shit. I reach out and clench his hair. I turn my cheek into the metallic comforter, noticing that he strokes himself at the same time his tongue flicks—
I moan.
He stares at me with a smile in his eyes.
This is more. Than what I thought would happen. Right now. I can’t even quantify how much time has passed. All I know is that he’s harder and I’m wetter. He flips me over, lifting me on my knees and hands. This is not going to go well.
“Nik,” I warn him, my heart thrashing. This is the worst position for us. He climbs onto the bed, kneeling behind me. He’s too tall. I’m too short, and our pelvises do not line up.
“Stay still,” he says.
Well no way am I going to move. He grasps my hips, lifting me higher so that I meet his cock, but now my knees are no longer on the bed. He slips in from behind. My arms quake, my fingers just barely touching the mattress.
I have very little support, but he has no trouble bracing my body weight. He leans forward, pushing even deeper, just to kiss the back of my neck. I shut my eyes and drift in the pulsing pleasure.
Maybe fifteen minutes later, he’s successfully fucked his emotions out. And I’m too exhausted to move or even consider a shower.
He holds me to his chest, brushing his fingers through my hair. I listen to his heartbeat slow, and I mentally try to reroute my brain to him, to his day. I hate when I’m so consumed by my own that I forget to ask. And I just hope that whatever went down, it’s not catastrophically bad.
It still feels likes he’s inside of me, even though he’s not. I cross my legs some, and then I ask, “What happened today?”
He exhales deeply and stares down at me.
I look up.
“Why do you think something happened?”
I’m not crazy. Am I? I didn’t make this up. “You’re just…more aggressive than usual.”
His brows furrow and his eyes flit down my naked body. “I didn’t hurt you…”
“No,” I say. “I mean, no more than usual.”
He glares. “I don’t enjoy hurting you when I sleep with you, just so you know.”
“It’s better than before,” I assure him.
He nods, relaxing a bit. “You’re right.”
“About…?”
He sighs heavily, another deep breath. “About something happening today.” He licks his lips and stares off for a second. When his eyes meet mine, they’re full of power, of what he always possesses, the unwavering contact. “I don’t know how to say it.”
My nerves escalate, and I sit up, not much. I just place an arm on his chest while he lies on his back. So that I’m the one staring down at him. So that he’s looking up at me. “Let me guess.”
His lips tic upwards. “Okay, myshka.”
I read his body language. He’s content now. Of course. But before, he was stressed. He’s been at work all day, so… “It has to do with Amour.”
He nods.
I take in the time. It’s almost at that five-month mark. Which means— “Elena,” I suddenly say. “It has to do with your partner.”
Surprise coats his face. I guessed right. “I’ve taught you well,” he murmurs.
He can’t dodge this. “What happened?” Elena is supposed to be in her first show next week, the aerial silk act returning to Amour.
His fingers skim the bareness of my shoulder blades. “She was fired.”
My face falls. “What?”
“She wasn’t improving to Aerial Ethereal’s standards, ‘not ready to perform’ they cited, and so management revoked her contract. They let her go this evening.”