He leans closer, the mattress dipping, and I catch the cedar-smoke scent of him again, pulling me back to that dreamlike haze.
“No play,krasavitsa,” he says, voice low, dangerous.
My body betrays me instantly. The way he says “krasavitsa,” all rough and Russian, sends a jolt straight to my core, my pussy pulsing like it’s got a mind of its own. My nipples tighten painfully against the thin fabric of my shirt, and my thighs tremble, pressing together to ease the ache.
Fuck, it’s just a word, but it’s like he’s reached inside me, flipped a switch, and now I’m wet, aching, ready to climb him right here. My breath hitches, and I bite my lip, trying to hide theflush creeping up my chest, but his eyes miss nothing, darkening as they track every twitch of my body.
“I wanted you here. In my bed.” His hand moves, slow and deliberate, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear, and his fingers linger, warm against my cheek. The touch is soft, too soft for a man like him, and it sends a shiver down my spine.
And then—oh, fuck—my ovaries practically do a backflip, like they’ve just heard the starting gun for the horniest race of their life. I swear I feel a twinge, a ridiculous, cartoonish ping in my lower belly.
Calm down, you desperate eggs.
This man’s barely touched me, and I’m already a mess, my pussy throbbing, my brain screaming “more” while my ovaries chant “breed me” like they’ve got no chill.
My breath catches, and I’m fucked, because I want to lean into that touch, want to let him unravel me.
“You’re breaking the rules,” I whisper, trying to sound sharp, but it’s breathless, my body betraying me. “This wasn’t part of the deal.”
“The deal,krasavitsa,is I get to fuck you senseless whenever we crave it,” he growls, voice dripping with hunger, his hands seizing my hips and yanking me onto his lap before I can breathe.
Ok, fuck it. I want him, and I want him now.
I straddle him, my core pressing against the hard, thick length of his cock through his sweatpants, and a whimper slips out, raw and needy. His heat seeps through the thin layers between us, and my pussy clenches, already aching for more. But before I can move, his hands slide up, one cupping my jaw, the other tangling in my hair, and he pulls me into a kiss that steals every thought from my head.
His lips are soft but demanding, moving against mine with a slow, deliberate hunger that makes my toes curl.
I open for him, and his tongue slips inside, hot and slick, tasting me like I’m the only thing he’s ever wanted. It’s not just a kiss—it’s a fucking invasion, every stroke of his tongue pulling a soft moan from my throat. My fingers dig into his shoulders, nails biting through his T-shirt, and I kiss him back, desperate, my tongue tangling with his, chasing the cedar-smoke taste of him. My heart’s pounding, my nipples tightening against my shirt, and I keep reminding myself:Don’t fall. Don’t feel.
But fuck, his mouth is a drug, and I’m already addicted, my body arching closer, begging for more.
He deepens the kiss, a low growl rumbling in his chest, and I feel it vibrate through me, sending a fresh wave of heat to my core.
His teeth graze my lower lip, a sharp nip that makes me gasp, and then he’s soothing it with a slow, sensual lick, like he’s savoring every second. My hands slide into his hair, tugging hard, and he groans, the sound so raw it makes my pussy pulse.
I’m drowning in him, in the heat of his lips, the scrape of his stubble, the way he’s kissing me like he wants to claim every inch of my soul.
This is just sex,I tell myself, but my body’s screaming something else, something dangerous, and I’m too far gone to care.
He pulls back suddenly, his breath ragged, and his eyes drop to my chest, narrowing at the faded Homer Simpson shirt clinging to my skin.
“This,” he says, voice low and incredulous, “is the ugliest fucking shirt I’ve ever seen.” His lips twitch, like he’s torn between disgust and amusement, and his arched brow is so comically serious that I almost burst out laughing.
I bite my lip, a giggle bubbling up as I catch his expression—pure, mafia-boss disdain for Homer’s grinning face.
“Don’t hate on Homer,” I say, smirking, my voice shaky from the kiss. “He’s got more personality than your entire wardrobe.”
The absurdity of it—arguing about my pajama shirt while I’m straddling his cock—makes my grin widen, and for a second, we’re just us, not a contract, not a deal, just two people caught in a ridiculous moment.
His eyes darken, but there’s a spark of humor there, and he shakes his head, muttering something in Russian that sounds like a curse.
Then his hands are back on me, and I grind against him, chasing the friction that’s setting my nerves on fire, my pussy clenching at the feel of him, so fucking close yet not close enough. His fingers dig into my thighs, rough but reverent, and he kisses me again, hot and desperate, his tongue sweeping past my lips, tasting me like he’s been starving.
“Fuck, Bella,” he murmurs, voice wrecked, his hands sliding under my Homer Simpson shirt to cup my breasts, thumbs circling my nipples until I’m trembling, my panties soaked through.
My head’s a warzone—
This is just sex. Just a deal.
