“I’m not,” I protest, poking at the screen.
“You have a question, lapochka.”
“I’m fine!” Giving up on reading, I look up.
Kirill has his head tipped arrogantly back, highlighting his cheekbones. “You sound like a little train,” he drawls. The clicking of his computer keyboard has stopped. “Just spit out whatever it is you want to say.”
I press my lips together. I don’t huff like a train. I might have sighed once or twice, but that’s not the same thing.
“It’s nothing,” I insist.
He raises one eyebrow and folds his arms.
I sigh again, frustrated, and amusement lights his eyes.
“Look it’s just that I don’t understand…” I search my mind for something plausible. Why he hates colour so much he’s rationed it in his house like it’s water on a life raft, but has a pink mask? Why he bothers with being a mafia boss when he clearly isn’t that interested in it? Why his eyelashes are so unnaturally long? Why his tattoos are so hot? Why he’s been so kind to me? “Why you haven’t come yet?”
I slap my hand over my mouth, but the damage is already done. Being kidnapped into utter luxury has made me stupid.
The relaxed expression is wiped from his face, and is replaced by the precise scrutiny of a predator. “That’s what you want, is it?”
“No, it’s just I imagined… You have two wishes left today?—”
“Favours,” he corrects me.
“Why don’t you use one to…” I run out of steam under his dark, brooding scowl.
“What do you think I should do with my favours today?” he asks with dangerous calm.
“It’s not what I think,” I hasten to say. “It’s what I expected, given….”
“From your reading material? What would your hockey player book boyfriend do if he had you at his mercy, huh?”
I tremble, but it’s not fear. It’s anticipation as he rises from his chair and stalks across the room.
I gasp.
He’s tall, and as I’m sitting, it’s very obvious what is happening below his belt, as it’s at my eye level.
He has a hard-on. And I think it’s that which makes me bold.
“You could make me give you a blow job.” I press my lips together at how insane this is. I should leave him alone. But it’s not just that I don’t understand why he hasn’t done anything to take pleasure for himself. I want to see him come apart.
“You want me to put you on your knees and my cock in your pretty pink mouth?” he says gruffly.
I lick my lips, and my breath escapes as a pant.
“You’d like me to use your throat and spill there, making you choke on and swallow every drop? My cock will make you cry, lapochka.”
“I wouldn’t mind,” I whisper.
His brows lower, as though trying to figure out if I’m tricking him. But then there’s a steely glint in his eyes, and he grabs acushion from the sofa, and drops it at his feet with an imperious look.
“Second favour—get on your knees and do as I tell you.” He points down, and arousal zings from my belly to my clit, and my nipples tighten.
I slide to where he indicates, wordlessly making use of the cushion he provided. He’s caring, this man, even as the clink of his belt in the silent room makes fear spark through me deliciously.
He’s really doing this. I can’t breathe as he peels open his jeans and soft-looking black boxers are revealed, only just restraining a bulge that this close up puts butterflies in my belly.
