I can still smell her arousal. Still taste her. Death almost feels worth it if it meant I could go back inside and fuck her right now, if I could sink my cock into her tight pussy and feel that heat enveloping me while I pump her full of my cum. I’m so hard, it would feel exquisite. Better than any fuck I’ve ever had.
Possibly a fuck worth dying for.
A harsh breath blows out between my teeth as she fills my mind. It’s not the first time I’ve jerked off thinking about her; far from it, but it feels different now that I’ve had my hands on her. Now that her pussy dripped for me, I ran my fingers over those wet folds.
I can’t stop thinking about her. The way she looked spread across my lap, her ass in the air, that oversized shirt riding up to expose her. The pink flush spreading across her skin with eachslap. The way she squirmed and gasped and then went still, like she was trying to hide how much she was enjoying it.
But I felt the heat radiating off her, the way her thighs pressed together, seeking friction, how wet she was when I finally touched her.
So fucking wet.
My hand moves faster, my grip tightening. I brace my other hand against the wall, my head dropping forward as I work myself. I think about sliding my fingers inside her. How tight she was, how she clenched around me. The way she moaned when I found that spot inside her, when I pressed, circled, and made her shake. How her swollen clit felt, throbbing and perfectly sized for me to find it and work it until she screamed for me.
I think about what it would feel like to replace my fingers with my cock. To push inside her, feel her stretch around me, hear her cry out. To feel her scratch and claw me and spit insults, swearing she doesn’t want me inside her, while that tight little pussy clenches and pulls me deeper.
The thought makes me stroke faster.
Or would she open for me, soften instead of fighting? Wrap her legs around my waist and pull me deeper, beg me to fuck her harder?
Fuck.
I’m so fucking close, my balls drawing up tight, pleasure coiling at the base of my spine. My breath comes in harsh pants, clouds of vapor in the freezing air. I think about coming inside her, thrusting into her as I shoot, feeling my hot cum slick my cock as I fuck it deeper into her. Maybe I could stay hard… I feel like I could, right now, like I could come and keep fucking her, come inside of her until she’s so full it’s dripping down her ass and her thighs…
The thought pushes me over the edge, my jaw clenched hard against a ragged moan of sheer ecstasy as I come hard, my cockpulsing in my hand, cum spilling over my fingers and onto the snow at my feet. The orgasm tears through me, intense enough that my knees almost buckle, and I have to lock my arm to keep myself upright. I come more than I can remember, in a long time, spurt after spurt coats the snowdrift at my feet. For a moment, there's nothing but the pleasure, the release, the blessed emptiness in my head.
Then reality crashes back in.
I'm standing behind a safe house in the middle of God-knows-where Russia, my cock in my hand, having just jerked off to thoughts of a woman I'm supposed to be rescuing. A woman who's been tortured and traumatized and who sure as hell doesn't need me adding to her problems.
And the worst part is that, just like I fantasized about, I’m still fucking hard.
My cock is still stiff in my hand, showing no signs of going down. I give myself one more stroke as the last beads of cum roll down my shaft, and I hiss as painfully intense pleasure jolts through me.
The orgasm took the edge off, but it didn't solve the problem. I’m not going back in there feeling clear-headed and like I can sleep without imagining what it would be like to fuck her until she screams my name.
Exactly the opposite, in fact.
I let out a sharp breath as the cold starts to work its way past the rush of heat that came with my frantic jerking off, and I know I’ve been out here too long. I wrestle my still-hard cock back into my jeans, my fingers feeling clumsy, and try to focus on what I need to be worrying about.
If nothing else happens—if we can get through tonight and the first part of tomorrow without Iosef’s men finding us, if the extraction I arranged for finds us without issue,if… then one flight to Boston later, I’ll never have to see her again. She’ll begone. Out of my life. Safe. I can go back to my life as it was, clean up the mess I made of the job with Iosef’s men, and get back in Ilya’s good graces. So long as he never finds out about this, it shouldn’t be too hard. I’m not the type to fuck up, and while I don’t have precisely the information he wanted, I do havesomeinformation about what they’re up to. The trip wasn’t a total loss.
All of that should be a relief, but it’s not. In fact, the thought of never seeing Svetlana again makes something that feels strangely like panic—a feeling I’m not at all familiar with—ripple down my spine.
I take a deep breath, forcing myself to calm down. To lock away the want, the need, the hunger that's still clawing at my insides. I can do this. I've done much, much harder things.
I just need to get through one more night.
I go back around the house and step inside, shutting the door firmly behind me and triple-locking it. The warmth hits me immediately, along with the scent of something else—a humid, floral scent coming from the bathroom just off the living room. I stand there, jaw clenched hard, and look at the sliver of light underneath the door. I can hear the sound of running water.
I think of Svetlana in there, standing under the hot spray, naked and gleaming wet, and my cock throbs so hard I almost think I fucking came again.
The sound of the water turns off. My heart is pounding against my ribs, and I force myself to move across the room to where there are a couple of old, dusty bottles of liquor on a shelf. I need a fucking drink. And I need to not be looking at the bathroom door when she comes out.
God help me if she’s not dressed.
One of the bottles is vodka. I twist it open and pour some into a glass, straight, nothing to mix it with. I’ve tossed it back, and I’m in the middle of pouring another when I hear the bathroom door click open.
"Pour me one," Svetlana says, her voice carrying across the room, and I tense.
