His other hand went from my throat to my jaw, hooking two fingers in my mouth. I could taste the salt from the clay, an earthy sort of flavor that reminded me of more natural musks.
The fingers below were warm, first just tracing the skin between my legs, making themselves known.
I was breathing hard, trying not to tense up and bite the fingers in my mouth clean off. An instinct I didn’t think I would want to fight, but I didn’t want this to end.
His fingers under my skirt split, spreading me apart. A wetness was forming; I didn’t need to feel it to know. Inside, I was pulsing, begging. The teasing was too much. My hips rolled impatiently.
“So much haste.” He tsked. “Such a needy, demanding little thing,” he whispered roughly in my ear, which I thought he would bite.
I whimpered, squeezing my eyes shut.
He shallowly inserted a finger, dipping in and out, getting to know my anatomy so intimately, like he was planning to sculpt it himself.
“I can’t get to know you if you don’t open up.” He traced over the entrance again. “I hope to teach you that letting your guard down with me will only lead to good things for you.”
My tongue settled against his fingers in my mouth. I glanced down, his hand making a distinct form under my skirt, then I watched it move.
His finger slipped in, just one at first, just like last time.
I clenched around it just to let go, to remember to relax, to breathe.
“Do you know how wet you are right now?” he whispered. “Is this how you touch yourself at night? Imagining it were my hands? Or do you imagine how my cock would feel pressed up in that pretty cunt of yours?” He let out a shallow breath by my ear like his words were letting his own imagination run wild.
With a sharp whine, my hips shifted against his hand as he held his finger inside me.
“More, you say?” He slipped another finger in. “I think you can do better.” Then another inside. He spread the three fingers, stretching me.
My legs shook. I realized my toes were pointed and my legs were stiff.
He curled his fingers inside me, pulling them out slightly just to bury themselves deeper. With every repetition, I felt looser, wetter. His palm rested against my clit, that tight bundle of nerves driven crazy from just the contact.
Arkady’s hips shifted against my backside, rubbing in tandem with his fingers. The friction was igniting me like live electrical wires touching every time a spark set me alight.
I bucked against his hand, unable to stop from biting his fingers in my mouth. I was so close, it was just out of reach.
His grip was tighter, and he worked faster as if he wasn’t going to last long if I didn’t finish. It was just what I needed, one last push.
I felt wet again, melting right into his hand.
Suddenly, the vertigo made me slump back against his chest. I could hear his breathing now, harder than I thought, but it didn’t match mine. His fingers slipped from my mouth, the others still deep inside me. I wondered if he felt the incessant pulsing, slower and slower, until the orgasm was washed away.
My head fell back, my eyes closing while I recovered, slumped in poor posture against him. The only thing holding me in place was his hand between my legs.
This was better than cocaine.
Before I could open my eyes to face the possible reality or shame of what we’d just done, I felt lips soft as flour and sweet like buttercream against mine. I knew better than to open my eyes, and I kissed back, hoping that it wasn’t a dream or some pleasure-stricken mirage.
“You did good,” he whispered, his fingers dancing across my temple and brushing my hair into place, “though, I’ve lost a day’s work on you.”
I opened my eyes but only to see he was smiling. “If you’d rather work than enjoy simple pleasures, you may be a lost cause, Mr. Kamenev.”
“It’s all the same, isn’t it?”
“Work and pleasure? I wouldn’t recommend it, personally.”
“Well, you’re quite a load of work, so what does that make you?”
“Worth the trouble, I would hope.”
