“Tell me, what is ‘Insurance’ and ‘Safety-237’?”
The question slices through the fog muddling my brain, scattering the static. My thoughts flicker and fade, white noise drowning any hope of coherence. I shake my head in confusion, unable to do anything else.
He adjusts underneath me, his thumb pressing my weakest point. His fingers, still thick with my juices, slide between my thighs and start to slowly push into me.
The jolt rips a gasp from my throat.
“Tell me.” His words are patient but relentless as his thumb circles. A perfect, excruciating torture. “What does the key belong to? What’s the number mean? Tell me.” His voice comes out flat. Empty.
Biting my lip, I look down at him.
His mouth is wet with my pleasure, his eyes solid black.
Still in control. Always in control.
I’m the one falling apart, unmade in his hands.
He’s dismantling me one sensation at a time, using my own body as leverage. A cruel tactic. And effective.
His hands keep moving. One on the back of my thigh. The other slowly working its way deeper, caressing every fold.
Each touch winds me tighter, dragging me closer to a tipping point I can’t cross without him. Desperate heat coils within me, need swallowing every other sensation. I’m nothing but trembling, helpless craving, my body surrendering in ways my mind never could.
I can’t resist him, not like this.
But I can’t tell him everything either. Not about my father’s safe or the real meaning of “237” or the secret history of my mother and her ruthless attempt to erase every trace of my father’s legacy. If Kirill pieced it all together?—
His finger barely grazes my G-spot, followed immediately by his thumb on my clit and a kiss on my hip.
Almost!
So I offer him a sliver of info, enough to satisfy him and keep the real answers safe.
Enough to satisfy me.
“The key’s from the island. He…” My body arches helplessly as Kirill’s fingers shift, expertly sending a fresh shockwave through me. “He emailed me pictures. Beaches, the hotel, the key. From his first day there.”
His mouth finds me again, the devastating intensity of his tongue evoking another desperate cry from me. He pulls back, just long enough for me to choke out the rest.
“The key went to his hotel room. That’s all I know.”
I’m feeding him crumbs. Praying they’re enough. I don’t know what I’ll do if he?—
“Good girl.” His words are muffled as he rewards me for giving in.
Relief mixes with pleasure as his mouth and fingers find their way back to me.
No amount of meditation could bring me this high or take me this far. He’s sin incarnate, that mouth of his twirling me like incense smoke.
His grip tightens. Suddenly, I’m on my back, thrown down onto the couch. There’s no more interrogation, no more questions.
Just him, taking and giving, stripping away all thought until I’m nothing but sensation. His hands force my legs apart, and his mouth returns to its ruthless, relentless work. I dissolve under him, every nerve laid bare.
This time, he doesn’t slow or drag things out.
The release rips through me, intense and unstoppable. The surge drowns out thought, reason, even fear, leaving nothing but this searing rush.
I call out his name, my hips bucking against his mouth. My body shudders beneath him, muscles tensing, seizing, then surrendering, again and again, as if the aftershocks will never end.
