She watches me from the bed, still dressed, her fingers twisting the hem of her sweater. She breathes too fast, her thighs clamp together, the flush creeping up her throat.
“Strip.”
She hesitates.
I let her.
She pulls the sweater over her head, her fingers fumbling with her bra, and the fabric falls away until she’s standing in just her panties with her arms crossed over her chest.
“Hands down.”
She drops them.
Her nipples are already hard. The bruises on her hips from last night have bloomed purple and yellow, and the sight makes something savage uncurl in my chest.
Mine. Those marks are mine.
“The underwear too. Then get on the bed.”
She obeys. She climbs onto the sheets and lies back against the pillows with her thighs pressed together like she can hide how wet she already is.
I can see the slick shine on her inner thighs from here, and my cock throbs against my zipper at the sight.
“Safeword?”
“Glas.”
“Color system?”
“Green, yellow, red.” Her voice catches. “Two taps if I can’t speak.”
“Khorosho.” I select what I need and move to the bed, settling between her thighs. The scent of her arousal hits me—salt and heat and something uniquely her—and I have to grip my own thigh to keep from just burying my face between her legs immediately. “Tonight I’m going to fill you completely. Both holes. At the same time.”
Her throat works as she swallows.
“Double penetration. Simultaneous stimulation of—”
“Anya.” I grip her jaw, forcing her eyes to mine. “You don’t get to hide behind science. Not here. Not with me.”
Her breath shudders out.
“I’m scared,” she whispers.
“Good.” I release her jaw and trail my fingers down her throat, her collarbone, the soft swell of her breast. “Fear means you understand the stakes. But I’m not going to hurt you.”
“Liar.” But her lips twitch.
I pinch her nipple—making her gasp, soft enough that the pain melts into pleasure—and her back arches off the mattress.
“I’m going to wreck you,” I correct.
I start with my mouth. I’ve been thinking about the taste of her since the last time I had my face between her thighs.
My tongue traces down her stomach, over the curve of her hip, avoiding where she wants me until she’s writhing and cursing and her hands are fisting in my hair.
“Roman—fuck—please—”
“Please, what?”
