"I will."
"No matter what."
"Dimitri, if you don't stop talking and start?—"
So, he started.
His mouth moved lower, and as he settled between her thighs, he looked up at her.
"Tell me if anything hurts," he said.
"The only thing that hurts is how long you're taking, and that you are not giving me what I want. This is not sixty-nine."
"Patience, my love. Your turn will come."
So that was how he wanted to do this. She should have known that he would go for the safest possible position, and she had no problem with that as long as he didn't renege on his promise.
"Promise?"
"I promise."
The last thing she saw before her eyes closed was his smile, and then there were no more words, no more teasing, no more safety protocols. There was just his mouth and his hands and the devastating, unhurried thoroughness with which he applied himself to the task.
Mattie's left hand fisted in the sheets while her right hand stayed obediently on the pillow, and her mind went beautifully, blissfully blank.
It was hard to believe that he hadn't done this before because he was masterful at it. Every sound she made, every shift of her hips, every catch in her breath was registered and responded to with adjustments so precise that she might have found it clinical if the results weren't so spectacular. He observed, analyzed, and refined in real time, and the effect was cumulative, building in layers, the pressure in her core cresting and pulling back and cresting higher with each pass.
"Dimitri…" she breathed his name, and it came out as half plea and half warning. His response was to increase the pressure and slow the pace, which was exactly right and exactly wrong and exactly everything, and she was going to…Oh, God, she was going to…
The climax hit her like a tsunami, total and overwhelming, and she heard herself make a sound that would have been embarrassing if there was anyone else in the building apart from her and Dimitri.
Every nerve in her body was singing, and Dimitri's hands were on her hips, holding her steady, and his mouth was gentle now,easing her through the aftershocks with soft, almost reverent kisses that made her eyes sting because she was wrung out and emotional.
When her breathing slowed, and the room reassembled itself around her, she opened her eyes and found him propped on his elbow, watching her with an expression that was equal parts pride and wonder and naked, aching want.
He was still in his pajama bottoms.
"Come up here," she said, and her voice was rough and unsteady, and she didn't care about that either.
He moved up the bed until they were face to face, and she kissed him, tasting herself on his lips, and the intimacy of that was so total that she understood why he'd never done this with anyone else. This was not casual. This was not recreational. This was two people trusting each other with the most vulnerable parts of themselves, and it took courage.
"Your turn," she whispered against his mouth. "You promised."
He opened his mouth to argue, but she put a finger on his lips. "That was the deal. Lie on your back."
His expression revealed the war between his need pulling one way and the instinct to protect her pulling the other. She put her good hand on his chest and pushed, and he let himself be pushed, rolling onto his back with a groan.
"Stubborn woman."
"I am, but you love me anyway."
"I love you, period, but you were supposed to be the one lying on your back. I was the one who was supposed to be on top. How else are you going to rest your hand on the pillow?"
"I have an idea."
She sat up carefully, keeping her right hand elevated, and looked down at him. He was breathing hard, his chest rising and falling with the effort of restraint, and the evidence of his arousal was impressive even through the loose fabric of his pajama bottoms.
"Put the pillow next to your hip," he said. "For your hand."
