“Beautiful.” His voice comes out in a whisper.
Then his mouth is on me.
He sucks my nipple between his lips, and I cry out at the sensation. His teeth graze the sensitive peak while his hand works the other side, rolling and pinching until I’m gasping,until my head falls back against the cabinet and my fingers twist in his hair.
“Pyotr—”
“Hands above your head. Don’t move.”
His voice is gravel and smoke, and I obey without thinking. I lift my arms, and my wrists cross above me against the cabinet door. He wraps one large hand around them and pins them in place.
“Good girl.”
I whimper, and he rewards me by trailing his free hand down my stomach. His fingers slip beneath the waistband of my leggings. Beneath my underwear. He finds me wet and wanting.
“This for me?” he asks against my breast.
“Yes.” I can barely form words. “Please.”
He strokes through my folds with agonizing slowness. His fingers circle my clit but never quite touch it. He dips lower to gather moisture before sliding back up. I try to adjust my hips to chase the pressure I need, but his hold on my wrists tightens in warning.
“Stay still.”
“I can’t?—”
“You can.” He kisses the swell of my breast. “You will.”
I force my body to obey. Every muscle trembles with the effort of not moving, of not begging, of letting him set the pace. His fingers keep up the maddening rhythm, circling and stroking, but never giving me quite what I need.
“Obedient. Beautiful.”
“Please,” I breathe. “Pyotr, please.”
“Please what?”
“Touch me.Reallytouch me.”
“I am touching you.”
“You know what I mean.”
He lifts his head from my chest and meets my eyes. “Tell me exactly want you want.”
My face burns. “I need you to touch my clit. I need you to make me come. Please.”
A fire erupts in his gaze, full of approval and hunger.
“Good girl,” he murmurs. “That’s what I want to hear.”
His fingers find my clit, and I cry out at the contact. He rubs tight circles while his mouth returns to my breasts. His teeth graze sensitive flesh, and then his tongue soothes the sting. The pleasure builds so fast that it steals my breath.
I’ve never felt anything like this. Never let anyone take control like this. With Bogdan, control meant pain and humiliation and terror.
With Pyotr, it feels like freedom.
He adds more pressure to his circles, and I moan. The sound echoes in the quiet kitchen, and I would be embarrassed if I could think at all. But there’s nothing in my head except the feeling of his fingers between my thighs and his mouth on my skin and his hand pinning my wrists above my head.
His thumb doesn’t slow. His grip tightens. Like he’s holding the perimeter.
