"Do I?"
Instead of backing out of the room to respect my request, he stands blocking my escape and ogling me with his eyes. Warmth flutters uncomfortably in my gut, and I find myself sensing the same magnetic chemistry I felt yesterday. It's like once we flipped that switch and let the current start to flow, there became no way to turn it off.
"You're beautiful," he growls in a gravelly tone. "I can't stay away from you."
"That's not a reason to follow me in here," I say sheepishly, but part of me doesn't actually mind that he followed me in here. My body is alight with sensations now, making every nerve fire rapidly. My body is relatively the temperature of the sun right now, so I'm finding it difficult to breathe.
I try to respond to him, but my words catch in my throat and he steps closer, positioning himself behind me where I can seehis reflection in the mirror. He looks good there behind me, towering over my reflection possessively as his hands settle on my hips, making my knees threaten to buckle.
"You're not going to tell me to leave," he says, and his eyes lock with mine. I can see the desire in his expression and feel my own body stirring and craving him too.
"No…" The word comes out barely louder than a breath. "I'm not." Of course I'm not. I've just spent the past twenty minutes writing in my journal all the wonderful things I can't hate about him anymore. He weaseled his way into my thoughts, and then got under my skin so I'd let him fuck me, and after he pinned me to his bed with no other intent than to sleep beside me comfortably, I have no clue what to think of him except that I know he can make me feel incredible.
His mouth finds the curve of my neck, moving slowly over the sensitive place beneath my ear. I watch us in the mirror, my eyes half-closed and my lips parted, his dark head bent over me. One hand stays firm on my hip while the other slides upward, fingers splaying across my stomach under my shirt. He takes his time like he's trying to unravel me completely.
"You like watching," he murmurs against my skin. The words vibrate through me as his palm flattens, pressing me back until my body is flush against his chest. I feel how hard he's getting, grinding against my ass so I can't pretend I don't notice.
A small whimper escapes me and his grip tightens.
"That's it," he whispers. "Let me hear you breathe heavy."
His free hand drifts lower, tracing the waistband of my slacks, long since wrinkled from sleep. My breath hitches when his fingers slip beneath the waistband with no hesitation, justpossessive movements. His hot palm glides over my belly until he cups me fully, hand pressed to my mound, and I watch his wrist disappear under the fabric in the mirror. The sight is obscene—my own flushed face, parted lips, his forearm flexing as he begins to move.
He strokes me gently, two fingers parting my folds under my panties. My hips jerk forward on instinct but he holds me tighter against himself.
"Stay still," he orders softly. "Let me take care of you."
I try.
God, I try.
But when he circles my clit with the pad of his middle finger, my knees buckle. He catches me, arm banding across my waist, keeping me upright while he rubs in tight, patient circles. My reflection shows everything—my chest rising and falling too fast, the way my thighs tremble, the faint sheen of sweat I can feel gathering at my hairline. What is this man doing to me?
His mouth moves to my ear. "You get so wet for me," he whispers. "Every time I touch you, you melt. You were made for my fingers to fuck you like this, Noemi."
I bite my lip to keep quiet, but a whimper slips out anyway. His finger dips lower, pressing inside just enough to tease, then drags back up, spreading the slickness he finds. He groans low in his throat when he feels how ready I am and the rumble vibrates against my back as his free hand slides under my shirt to grip one of my breasts through my bra.
"Look at you," he says, voice darker now. "Look how beautiful you are when you're lusting after me."
I do—I can't look away. His hand works me in devastating, slow drags, firm circles, then a sudden press that makes my vision blur. My head tips back against his shoulder. He takes advantage, kissing along my jaw, then claiming my mouth in a deep, hungry kiss. Our tongues slide together and tangle and our teeth clash twice, but I'm desperate for him to make me feel alive again.
His hips roll again, grinding his erection against my ass in time with the rhythm of his fingers. I can feel every thick inch of him, trapped behind that zipper. The friction makes me clench around nothing, and he growls into my mouth like he can feel it too.
"So perfect," he mutters against my lips. "So fucking perfect for me. You don't know what you do—how badly I want to keep you like this, trembling, begging, all mine."
And I'm right there, teetering on the edge, ready to let him devastate me again, when Sasha's voice interrupts.
"Papa?"
Fyodor freezes. His hand stills between my legs. For one long second, neither of us moves. Then he exhales as he bites down on my shoulder and carefully withdraws his fingers. He presses one last soft kiss to the side of my neck before stepping back.
I sway without his support, cheeks burning, pulse hammering, and he adjusts himself with a grimace, then glances at my reflection one more time. I see how hungry he is for me. I feel it to my very core, but fatherhood is more important than pleasure.
"Later," he says quietly.
Then he turns, opens the door, and leaves me there—aching, breathless, staring at my own wrecked expression in the mirror.
I lock the door because after that, I don't think I'm going to walk straight today unless I fix the growing problem between my legs. Fyodor has no clue what he does to me. I'm so flustered and worked up, I physically ache for relief.
