“Huh.” Her head tilts. There’s that bratty twitch at the corner of her mouth.
“Choose your words wisely,” I warn.
Her eyes flick down, then snap back up to mine, wide and unapologetic.
“Well,” she says thoughtfully, “this is going to require some spatial planning.”
I laugh before I can stop myself, leaning over her, bracing my hands on either side of her head.
She reaches up, traces her fingers across my ribs, and stops below my heart, her knuckles resting there, close enough to feel the pulse.
“Careful, Tsarina,” I say, my mouth just above her ear. “You’re already in trouble.”
She closes her eyes for a fraction of a second, like she’s banking the sensation for later analysis, then opens them wide. “You’re so sure I’m the one who needs to be careful,” she says, her voice going velvet-soft. “Maybe I have plans.”
There’s a moment, suspended in the diamond light of her chandelier, where neither of us speaks. She’s the first to break it, softer now, “Do you have a plan?”
“Of course I have a plan,” I say, but there’s a tremor under the words—because the truth is, I don’t. Not with her. Every time I think I do, raw desire is replaced by something deeper inside of me than I ever knew existed.
She cups my jaw, tilts my head toward her, and for a second, I think she’ll say something else, maybe even tease me. But she just looks at me with that wide-open, unguarded expression that’s so at odds with how she is in every other moment. “And I don’t want to overthink it,” she says, softer than I’ve ever heard her.
Her bare foot glides along the inside of my thigh, her toes brushing against my skin, before she hooks her ankle behind my knee and pulls me closer. As I settle over her, I shift my weight carefully, ensuring I don't smother her delicate frame beneath mine.
She trembles against me, her chest rising and falling rapidly with each breath, anticipation and perhaps a little fear coursing through her veins. My own body is buzzing with pent-up excitement as I fight the urge to hurry. Instead, I want to etch each second of our first time into memory, not just for her, but for me as well.
As we lie there together, I stretch my arm above her head and clasp both of her wrists firmly within my hand, pressing them against the softness of the pillow. "Tell me what you want," I whisper into her ear.
She hesitates for a moment, her breath coming in short gasps as a flicker of panic appears in her eyes. Then she finds her voice. "I want you to kiss me," she murmurs, and so I lean down to capture her lips within mine – tender at first, then increasing in intensity. She lifts her hips to meet my hand, the urgency in her movements a silent plea, the kind of need that’s louder than words.
"Touch me," she manages, and the vulnerability in her voice makes something in my chest clench. I don’t hesitate.
My fingers glide along the silky skin of her inner thighs — featherlight at first, then firmer, tracing invisible lines that map every curve, every inch of her as if I were memorizing her for an exam I could never afford to fail. Her legs part, trembling, and the air between us heats to something nearly unbearable. I let my hand hover at the place where her thigh meets her hip, teasing, waiting for her to look up at me with those desperate, pleading eyes.
When she does, it’s like flipping a switch. I swallow the sound of my name on her lips as I finally touch her, slowly tracing the seam of her with two fingers, feeling the electric thrum that pulses there. The sound she makes as I slip my hand between her legs—half gasp, half moan, almost animal—nearly undoes me. I circle her with my thumb, gentle and unhurried, building thepressure until her breathing turns erratic, until her fingers claw at the sheets and her back bows off the bed. I want to see how far she'll go before she breaks, but I also want her to know she's safe, anchored, so I press my forehead to hers and whisper, “Tsarina moya.”My queen.
Her hands tangle in my hair, nails grazing my scalp, and she arches toward me, her hips seeking friction, grinding hard against my palm.
“Please,” she rasps, almost inaudible. “Please, I want?—”
The end of the sentence is lost to another shuddering gasp as I slip a finger inside her, then another, finding a rhythm that matches the racing of her heart against my chest. Already I can feel her tightening around me, her body curling in on itself, trying to keep me inside, desperate to prolong the sensation.
Her eyes flutter closed, lashes damp, mouth falling open as she pants my name over and over, and I realize she’s close, so fucking close, and I want to see her come apart.
But I want it to last. I slow my hand, drawing her back from the edge, and she whimpers—a sound of protest—but then I’m shifting lower, mouth following the trail my hand has marked out. I kiss her breasts, slow and deliberate, sucking each nipple until they pebble hard against my tongue and she writhes beneath me. I make sure to leave my mark down the slope of her sternum. I want her to look in the mirror and see her, and me… us.
My lips trail down, over the soft plane of her belly, pausing to dip into the hollow above her navel, and I feel her tremble in anticipation, her whole body a live wire.
When I finally settle between her thighs, she’s already dripping, and I take a moment just to look at her, open and beautiful and utterly undone. I flatten my tongue against her, lick slowly from bottom to top, and she cries out, bucking her hips.
I let her ride my mouth, let her use me, tongue flicking and circling, teasing her clit while my fingers press deeper inside, curling just right to make her see stars. She’s so wet it coats my chin, and I lap it up greedily, savoring the taste of her, the slick and salt and sweetness.
She’s babbling now, senseless, and I love all of it. I can feel her tensing, bracing, and then she breaks—her whole body jerking as she comes, thighs clamped around my head, a sob tears from her throat as she pulses around my fingers.
I ride out her orgasm, only easing up when she goes limp, her chest heaving, glazed eyes staring up at the ceiling as if she’s just seen heaven and she’s not sure how to come back to earth.
I kiss the inside of her thigh, the top of her knee, and move up to hover above her, wiping my mouth on the back of my hand. Her cheeks are flushed, hair a wild halo against the pillow, and yes, it’s fucking perfect too. Maybe even more so.
“Fuck me," she gasps at last, her voice torn from somewhere deep and hungry inside her. The words hit me like a jolt to the spine. I hook my hands beneath her knees, drawing her legs up, higher, until her ankles rest on my shoulders, and the new angle makes her eyes go wide as I drag my throbbing cock against her gorgeous, soaked cunt, and then… my whole fucking world changes.
