A muscle works in his throat, but he lifts his hands and lowers them back to the mattress.
I lean forward, and he allows me to loop the tie across his eyes and knot it loosely at the back of his head. The exhale that comes out of his mouth when I sit back is strained, and I note that with considerable satisfaction.
I pull my shirt over my head and drop it behind me, watching his expression, the way his jaw has gone tight, and the way his breathing has gotten faster and shallower. He can hear every fabric rustle, but he can’t see any of it. This man who never stops watching is now entirely dependent on what I choose to give him.
I reach down and work his shirt buttons open the rest of the way before spreading the fabric back and running my palms up his stomach. He drags in a slow breath through his nose, and his hands come up from the mattress toward me.
“No,” I remind him, and he grits out a sound and forces them back down.
I unhook my bra and let it fall, and then I drag my mouth along his collarbone, across the old scar I’ve only ever traced with my fingers, and he makes a noise against the back of his teeth and fists the sheets.
“Polina…” My name comes out almost pained.
“I haven’t told you to talk yet,” I murmur against his throat, and he goes quiet.
I work my way down his body, taking my time with every inch. Every time he reaches for me, I pull back and wait until he goesstill again. By the time I stand to push off the rest of my clothes and remove his pants, the sheets beneath his hands are pulled taut, and the tendons in his forearms are standing out like wire.
I wrap my hand around his cock and stroke him once, slowly enough to make a point, and the sound that tears out of him sounds as though it’s been dragged up from somewhere he doesn’t usually let me near.
“Christ.” His voice is barely recognizable. “Please.”
Lev Morozov saying please is the most satisfying thing I have heard. I stroke him again, slower this time, and watch his hips jerk off the mattress before he catches himself and forces them back down.
“Stay still,” I order.
“I’m trying,” he grits out. “I am genuinely trying, Polina.”
I position myself over him and sink onto his cock in one slow, rolling stroke, taking every inch of him, and we both moan. His dick fills me so completely that I have to brace myself against his chest and breathe through the aching pressure of the fit and the overwhelming certainty that this is right.
Beneath the blindfold, his mouth has fallen open, and his hands stay on the mattress, though they’re shaking with the effort of keeping them there.
I set the pace at what I want, slow enough to feel every ridge on every stroke. I want to feel him tremble as he struggles against the urge to seize my hips and take over the way he normally does when we have sex. I know that if he decided the blindfold and my instructions were obstacles instead of rules, this would go verydifferently. The fact that he’s choosing to stay where I put him makes something coil tightly in my stomach.
I roll my hips forward, searching for the angle that sets fire to my body, drawing a moan that I don’t bother trying to swallow.
“Tell me what you look like right now,” he prompts, and his voice has gone rough and low and stripped of all its polish.
“You know what I look like,” I reply, and roll forward again, and his head tips back hard against the pillow.
“Tell me. I want to hear you say it.”
“I’m riding your cock,” I remind him, “and you’re going to stay where you are and take it.”
His low growl sounds almost animalistic, and I smile at his frustration as I reach between my thighs and work my clit in tight circles while I ride him. The layered pressure builds faster than I expected. I know he can feel the change in my body in the way my thighs tighten against his hips and my rhythm loses its evenness.
“Don’t,” he snaps. “Don’t you dare come without telling me first.”
“I’ll come whenever I want.”
“Polina.” It’s a warning and a plea, and the combination does something catastrophic to my composure. “If you come before I say so, I will spend the rest of the night making sure you regret it.”
“You don’t get to give orders right now.” I clench around him on purpose, and his full-body shudder travels all the way up through me.
“Say my name again,” I tell him.
“Polina… oh, God. Polina.”
Without warning, he shoots his hands off the mattress and grabs my hips, not directing me or taking over, just holding on. The pressure of his fingers is enough to leave bruises, and I want every one of them.
