"Christ," he mutters. "Svetlana?—"
His fingers slide through my folds, exploring, and I can't stop the moan that escapes. My hips buck against his hand, seeking more, and I'm past the point of pretending I don't want more.
"Please," I hear myself whisper, my body clenching around nothing. I can’t remember the last time I wanted to come like this. Maybe I’ve never wanted to come this badly before. But I need it. I need?—
"Please, what?" His fingers circle my clit, and I nearly sob with the sensation. It’s so good. So much pleasure, when for long there’s been only pain. I want more. I want to lose myself in it, to find that moment when everything coalesces, and there’s only sensation.
"Please—I don't—" I whimper, unable to force myself to say it, to beg him to make me come.
"You don't know?" His voice is dark and teasing, thick, as if he’s speaking through a fog. Like he’s not fully in control of himself. "I think you know exactly what you want."
He's right. I do know. I want him to keep touching me. I want him to make me come. I want him to fuck me right here on this couch and make me forget everything except the feeling of him inside me. I want to find out what that huge cock feels like inside of me, for him to fuck me so hard that it wipes away the memory of anyone else, all of the?—
But I can't say that. I can't?—
His fingers slide inside me, and the words die in my throat as his thumb presses against my clit. He’s so hard now, I don’t know how he’s able to stand it. I can feel the line of his cock pressed to the valley of my hips, can tell how long he is from the pressure.
"So wet," he murmurs, almost to himself. "So fucking perfect."
He moves his fingers, slow and deliberate, and then I'm rocking against his hand, chasing the pleasure building inside me, unable to stop myself. The humiliation of the position, of being spanked and then touched like this, only makes it more intense. I’m helpless, completely at his mercy, andoh God, his mercy feels so fucking good.
I'm close. So close. The heat is building, coiling tight in my belly, and I'm making sounds I can't control, desperate little whimpers and moans. I buck against his hand, my face pressed into the pillow, and my ass arched up, beyond embarrassment now, beyond anything other than begging for what I need so desperately?—
"That's it," he murmurs, his voice rough. "Let me hear you."
His thumb circles in time with the thrust of his fingers, and I'm right on the edge, about to tip over?—
He stops.
Suddenly, violently, he pulls his hand away and pulls himself out from under me, leaving me in a heap on the couch, gasping and disoriented, my body screaming in protest at the loss of contact. I look up at him, and he backs away from me, looking at me like I’m something dangerous, something that could strike out at him at any moment like a snake.
His cock is a thick ridge against the front of his pants, straining as if it might rip through the fabric. I’ve never seen a man so aroused, and that sense of power washes over me again.
A dark, bitter part of me wants to see him come undone so I can walk away fromhim, this time, afterward. And another part of me just wants to find out what it’s like when I unravel Kazimir Orlov entirely.
But right now, he’s not coming unraveled for me. He’s fighting it with everything in him, taking another step back as he swallows hard. His hand—the one that was just inside me—is clenched into a fist at his side, and he shakes his head, guilt flooding his expression.
"No," he says, his voice harsh. "No. This isn't—we can't?—"
"Kazimir—" I'm still a mess, my pants halfway down my legs, my body trembling with unsatisfied arousal. “I?—”
"Stay away from me." He takes another step back, and I can see the self-loathing in his eyes. "Just—fuck—stay away."
"Wait—"
"You've been tortured. Abused. And I just—" He runs both hands through his hair, pulling hard enough that it must hurt. "What the fuck is wrong with me?"
"Nothing's wrong with you," I say, trying to push myself up as I reach for my pants, very much not wanting to have this conversation half-dressed. "I wanted?—"
"You don't know what you want." His voice is sharp, cutting. "You're traumatized. You're not thinking clearly."
"Don't tell me what I'm thinking?—"
"This was a mistake." He's moving toward the bedroom now, still backing away like I might chase him. "A fucking mistake. It can't happen again."
"Kazimir—"
He turns and walks outside, slamming the door behind him. And I’m left on the couch, my body still humming with arousal and my mind spinning.
