He stares without putting a finger on me.
The silent moment stretches out, endless and excruciating. I resist the urge to cover myself. I know he’d only move my hands, maybe even pin me down.
Maybe I’d like that.
I’m trapped by his attention, my skin burning from his scrutiny. My breasts, my stomach, the curve of my hips, the space between my thighs. His reverential gaze—bright with a raw hunger—transcends mere lust.
He leans back, creating space between us. With a slow, deliberate, spell-binding motion, Kolya spreads my knees wide.
He bends forward and pulls my hips closer to the edge of the couch.
My breath hitches in anticipation.
His eyes hold mine, refusing to let me hide, even as he lowers his head. He tastes the inside of my thigh, his tongue a brand on my skin in his upward journey.
He finds me immediately, his mouth hot and demanding against my core. Painful pleasure zaps through me.
Enough to make me yearn for more.
I gasp at the overwhelming sensation, dragging him closer despite myself.
His tongue flattens against me in long licks, then circles exactly where I need him most. He knows what he’s doing, reading my body’s responses with devastating accuracy.
He maintains a relentless rhythm, devouring me as I buck and convulse. His hands keep my thighs open, preventing them from crushing his head as the rest of my body jumps and writhes.
His mouth. His tongue. How can anyone be so good at this?
So good, he might destroy my pussy. Is this torture or foreplay? Either way, I can’t look away or hide.
I’m coming undone beneath the mouth of a dangerous man who’s claimed me as his own.
He’s watching me.
Not my body, but my reactions, my unraveling. He’s consuming me, piece by glorious, terrifying piece. Learning what makes me gasp. Moan. Shatter.
And all the while, he remains silent and unmoving aside from his mouth on me, his hands splayed firmly on my thighs.
A robot programmed to reduce me to a babbling mess.
My head falls back, and my eyes flutter shut as the pleasure builds to an unbearable peak. “Kolya!” His name is torn from my throat as my world fragments into sensation.
He holds me steady as I convulse against his mouth. After I ride out the aftershocks, I slump into the scratchy couch cushions, panting. My body becomes liquid, like I’ve melted into the fabric of the sofa.
For the second time, I’m toast, and he hasn’t even come once yet.
When I manage to lift my head, he still has that same intense focus. Primal possessiveness and a satisfaction that goes beyond the physical flare in his eyes.
He rises with that fluid grace that should be impossible for someone his size.
Without him to support me, I nearly slide off the couch.
Then he sits beside me as if on a throne, with his legs parted and his expression a mask of dark hunger. One hand rests on his thigh. His posture and the slight tilt of his head all serve as a silent invitation.
The other hand brushes a strand of hair from my face in an oddly tender gesture.
I maintain eye contact for a long beat, my heart still racing from my orgasm. I could walk away now and ask him to leave so I can return to my carefully constructed life of kindergarten lessons, craft projects, and boring men who wax poetic about lawnmowers over dinner.
Or I could choose him.
