Konstantin’s eyes darken, a low growl rumbling deep in his chest, and fuck, he’s into it. His thigh tenses under my hand, pants tightening more, and that grin turns hungry.
“Tell me,” he says, voice dropping lower, “what do you want to do with it?” It’s a dare, his gaze burning, and my whole body’s screaming, turned on by how straight-up I was, how he’s eating it up.
I swallow, apprehensive but buzzing, his command pulling something brave from me.
“I… want to touch it,” I say, voice shaky but honest. “Maybe… taste it.” My cheeks burn—God, Bella, really?—but I’m drunk, and he’s making me bolder, like I can’t hide anymore. “I want to suck it.”
“You want it that bad,krasavitsa?” he taunts, voice low, commanding. It’s like he’s peeling me open. “How wet are you right now? Tell me.” His eyes flick to mine, dark, daring, andfuck, my thighs clench, heat flooding so hard I’m trembling, his question hitting like a spark.
“I… I…” I stammer, face blazing. “So wet… God,” I mumble, voice cracking, honest but shaky, like I’m confessing to a priest. My condo-queen brain’s screaming “shut up,” but his voice—tell me—pulls it out, and I’m dying, turned on by how he’s making me say it.
He groans and grabs my hand from his thigh, guiding it to his pants and pressing it against him. Holy shit, he’s rock-hard, huge, straining.
“Feel how fucking hard you’ve got me,” he rasps. “Rub me, Bella, slow.”
My breath’s gone, fingers trembling as I touch him, feeling every inch through the fabric, and God, it’s too much—hot, thick, pulsing under my hand.
“Can’t… can’t take this,” I gasp, half-laughing, half-panicked, but I rub him, slow, hesitant, like he said, my palm sliding up and down.
My pussy’s throbbing, wetter than ever, and I’m whimpering, a nervous mess, but I can’t help but do as he tells me.
His hips twitch, a low, guttural growl ripping out, and he’s watching me, eyes black with want.
“Good girl,” he says, voice raw, filthy, andfuck, that hits deep, making me clench harder, my hand moving faster, bolder, like I’m chasing his voice.
“Fuck, baby,” he groans. “I wanna taste you—lick you till you’re screaming, my tongue all over that sweet pussy.”
I gasp. God, his filthy words just make me drip more, and now my pussy’s screaming for him, betraying every ounce of me. I’m rubbing him through his pants, feeling him—hot, thick—and God, he’s getting harder, bigger, straining under my palm, and it’s killing me, my thighs squeezing as I fight not to moan.
“I want you to finger yourself,” he growls, voice rough, insistent, like he’s tearing my head open, “and tell me how wet you are.”
His jaw’s tight, eyes flicking between me and the road, andfuck, he’s trying so hard to focus, knuckles white on the wheel, and that—his struggle—makes me burn hotter, my pussy aching like it’s begging. My hand’s still on him, rubbing slowly, feeling him pulse, and I’m dizzy, drunk on champagne and him, timid but trapped in his voice.
I hesitate, face on fire—Bella Marquez, fingering herself in a car?—but his growl’s a leash, pulling me. My free hand slips down, trembling, under my dress, and shit, I’m soaked, pantyless, fingers sliding easy, too easy.
“I’m… dripping wet,” I whisper, voice trembling, half-shocked that I said it, but it’s true, and my cheeks burn, nervous but bold, like he’s unlocking me. I keep rubbing him, his cock swelling under my hand, and his focus cracks—a twitch in his cheek, a hissed breath—and God, that’s hot, knowing I’m doing this to him, my pussy spasming as I touch myself.
“Fuck…” I moan.
He smirks, dark and dangerous, and leans closer, his voice dropping to a filthy rasp. “Yes,krasavitsa, I wanna put my cock in you,” he says, “feel that tight pussy milk it till you’re screaming my name.”
His words hit like a shock, raw, overwhelming, and I’m done. My brain shorts out, heat spiking so hard I’m whimpering, fingers slipping faster, rubbing him harder, and I’ve lost it, Shy Bella buried under this needy, reckless mess who’d let him do anything right now.
My fingers shake, but I hit the buckle—snap—and lunge, yanking his zipper down. It sticks, and I mutter, “Stupid fancy pants,” laughing despite myself. He groans, deep, primal, the Cullinan swerving as his hand clamps my wrist—not stopping, pressing harder, his grip hot and rough.
“Fuck,krasavitsa,” he snarls, eyes dark, wild, “you’re gonna kill us both.” But he’s smirking, hips shifting up, and God, he’s huge, straining against his boxers, and my mouth’s dry, hungry.
I lean closer, breath shaky, and take him in my hand—hot, thick, pulsing—and my lips follow, tentative at first, then deeper, saliva and precum mixing, making him slick. I can’t take all of him—he’s too big, and I’m no pro—but I try, licking him slow, like an ice cream on a hot day, my tongue swirling over the tip, savoring the salt and heat.
He growls again, a deep, guttural sound that vibrates through me, one hand tangling in my hair, tugging just enough to make me moan, the other jerking back to the wheel as the car sways.
“Fuck, yes,” he rumbles, voice wrecked, “just like that, baby.”
He turns sharply onto his private road—dark pines and no streetlights—and I glance up, catching the GPS: 10 minutes to the mansion. My heart skips, and he pulls over, tires crunching on gravel, the car lurching to a stop.
“Enough driving,” he mutters, voice rough, and I’m already moving. My red dress hikes up, sliding high, baring my ass as I bend, pantyless and exposed, the cool air hitting my skin. I’m trembling, shy but wild, his words—taste you, screaming—looping in my head, and I want him to see me, want him to want me.
30
