His expression flickers—surprise, then heat. “You don’t have to—”
“I want to.” I push myself up onto my elbows, feeling bolder than I ever have. “Please. Show me how.”
For a long moment, he just looks at me, something warring in his expression. Then he rises from the bed and begins to unbutton his shirt.
I watch, transfixed, as he reveals himself to me. Broad shoulders. A muscled chest dusted with dark hair. Defined abs that flex as he moves. He’s beautiful in a way that’s almost intimidating—all hard lines and coiled power.
When his hands move to his belt, my breath catches.
He pauses. “You sure about this?”
I nod, not trusting my voice.
He unbuckles his belt, unzips his pants, and pushes them down along with his boxers. And then he’s standing before me completely bare, his arousal thick and hard and jutting toward me.
I’ve never seen a man like this before. I’ve seen pictures, of course—clinical images in health class, the occasional explicit scene in movies. But nothing prepared me for the reality of Dmitri, fully aroused and wanting me.
“You can look,” he says, a hint of amusement in his voice. “Touch too, if you want.”
I reach out tentatively, my fingers brushing along his length. He hisses in a breath, his whole body going taut.
“Did I hurt you?” I pull back immediately.
“No.” He catches my hand and brings it back. “The opposite. Here—let me show you.”
He wraps my fingers around him, adjusting my grip, and then guides my hand in a slow stroke. His skin is hot and smooth, and I can feel him pulse against my palm.
“Like this,” he murmurs, showing me the rhythm he likes. “A little tighter—yes, just like that. Good girl.”
He releases my hand, letting me take over, and I watch his face as I stroke him. The way his jaw clenches, the way his eyes grow heavy-lidded, the way his breath comes faster—it’s intoxicating, knowing I’m the one making him feel this way.
“Faster,” he groans, his hips starting to move, thrusting into my grip. “God, Mireille—your hands—”
I increase my pace, marveling at the way his control seems to slip with every stroke. This powerful, commanding man, coming undone because of me.
“I’m close,” he warns, his voice strained. “If you don’t want me to—”
“I want it,” I say, surprising myself. “I want to watch you.”
He groans, a deep, guttural sound, and then he’s pulsing in my hand, spilling hot and thick across my chest. I watch his face as he comes—the way his features twist with pleasure, the way he bites down on his lip, the way he says my name like a prayer.
When it’s over, he opens his eyes and looks down at me, at the evidence of his pleasure marking my skin. Something possessive flashes in his gaze.
“Mine,” he says roughly. Then he leans down and kisses me, soft and sweet, a contrast to everything that came before.
Before I can respond to that, he swoops me into his arms and slides off the bed. I let out an excited squeal, wrapping my arms around his neck.
“What are you doing?” I ask, chucking.
“Getting you cleaned up,moya kukolka,” he says, heading in the direction of what I believe to be the bathroom.
The shower is large and luxurious, with multiple heads and steam curling through the air. Dmitri leads me inside, the warm water cascading over both of us.
He’s gentle as he washes me, his hands sliding soapy trails across my skin. It’s intimate in a different way than before—tender rather than urgent. He pays attention to every part of me, from my shoulders to my fingertips to the arches of my feet.
“Turn around,” he murmurs, and I obey. His fingers work through my hair, massaging shampoo into my scalp, and I lean back against his chest with a contented sigh.
“This feels nice,” I say softly.
