She exhales sharply, like she’s accepted her fate, then straightens. “Cleaning time!”
The words come out of her own mouth, yet somehow, shestilllooks as startled as I feel.
I watch her as she walks straight back into my bathroom.
I don’t stop her. I don’t plan to.
I just stand there, hand still clenched around my glass, watching the door swing shut like it’s closing on my last shred of sanity.
13
Konstantin
Fuck.
Rational thought tells me to walk in there and tell her to get the fuck out. That’s the responsible thing to do. The sane thing. But another part of me—the part currently engaged in an all-out war with my self-respect—is arguing that I should sit my ass down and let the situation play itself out.
Maybe she’ll get out on her own. Maybe I won’t have to do anything at all. Maybe—
A shadow moves behind the frosted glass.
Blyad.
I grab the bottle, pour another shot, and down it, letting the burn distract me. But then my mind, that treacherous bastard, starts filling in the gaps. The slope of her neck. The curve of her hip. The way steam clings to skin.
I slam the glass down harder than necessary. Another shot. Faster this time.
The second shot barely reaches my throat when the bathroom door swings open.
And there she is.
I still haven’t swallowed.
“Oh God,” she groans, staring at my portrait with an intensity that makes me forget how to swallow. “I’m giving him an accent. Why am I giving him an accent? And why is it working?”
Cognac goes down the wrong way. I press my fist against my mouth, choking silently. She’s… what? Giving me an accent?
I blink. Did I finally drink myself into oblivion? Because I can’t believe what the fuck I’m hearing.
Then, as if the universe decides I haven’t been tested enough, she lets go of the towel. The glass nearly slips from my grip as it hits the floor, cognac sloshing dangerously close to the rim. She sinks into my mattress with a sound that makes my fingers tighten around the crystal until I’m half-convinced it’ll shatter.
Naked. She’s completely naked. Lying on my five-hundred-thread-count sheets.
Christ, I can feel my cock stir at the sight, hardening against my zipper. It’s begging me to let it out, to take what it wants.
I know she can’t see me, but I hold my breath, a futile attempt to regain control. I watch her as she starts to circle her perky nipple with her green toy, and Jesus, a low groan almost escapes my clenched throat. I try—hard—to look away, but my gaze is locked, ensnared. She’s lost in some fantasy, most likely imagining me, as her fingers flick faster and faster over her own nipple, her hips undulating like waves. My mind betrays me, conjuring images of my tongue tracing her clit, of my fingers plunging into her wetness. I’m utterly, irrevocably stuck in this moment, engulfed by the scene and the unbearable, consuming need.
Blyad.
Thrown into a vortex of primal urges, my mind reels, careening into carnal desire.
Then she casts a smoldering glance at my portrait, her tongue flicking out to moisten her full lips. Her hand disappears from sight, but I can imagine, so vividly, where it’s heading. My cock throbs with need.
Then, she breathes, “I’m dripping.”
Fuck me.
My control is hanging by a thread, a thin strand of sanity that’s about to snap at any moment. I clench my teeth so hard I might crack a molar, my fist clenching in a death grip. Every fiber in my being screams at me to whip out my cock and take matters into my own hands, to work off this pent-up tension.
