I still smell like him, a scent that’s clean but musky all at the same time. It’s the smell of sex, the smell of trouble. I stretch out, hissing when places on my body that are still sensitive argue against it.
Roman did this to me. The thought of him last night, his hands all over my body, his thickness buried deep inside, stretching me perfectly… it’s enough to get heat building all over again.
I glance at my phone. It’s a little after two in the afternoon. Sasha’s with one of his private tutors, so I have the next hour to myself before I’m back on the clock.
And I know just how I want to spend it.
I lay on my back, my hand moving down my chest, along my stomach, then underneath the waistband of my panties. My fingers slip between my thighs, finding slick heat already waiting. I’m still tender from him, but not enough to stop.
I spread my lips, circling my clit slowly at first. Memories fill my mind as I squeeze my eyes shut.
He’s behind me again. I’m gripping the headrest of the seat in the sitting room, focusing on the power of his thrusts as he plunges into me again and again. I focus on the sensation of him reaching around, grabbing my swaying breasts, tweaking my nipples as he drives in.
“God, you feel so perfect wrapped around me,” I imagine him leaning forward and growling into my ear.
I loved the way he handled me, taking me by my hips, making me his. I remember how hard the orgasm had hit, my body shaking with the intensity.
I take the fantasy in a different direction. We’re in his bedroom, Roman on top of me. His broad shoulders are silvered with moonlight, his gorgeous eyes fixed on mine like he wants me to see how intensely he’s savoring the sight of me below him.
One big hand cups my breast, thumb brushing my nipple until it tightens. His mouth follows on the other nipple, wet, hot sucking that pulls a gasp from my throat as I touch myself in the real world. I arch into the imagined touch, glancing down in the fantasy and watching his stone-solid thickness plunge into my soaked pussy over and over.
“You take me so well,” he says, his voice low.
All I can do is moan, my fingers rubbing my clit, my hips starting to buck.
I imagine him pinning my wrists above my head as he fills me with long, deep strokes that drag over every sensitive place inside of me.
Then his voice, low and steady, at my ear again. “Look at me.”
He pulls back. I look into his eyes. “You do not come until I say. Understand?”
The command is firm, irresistible, delivered with the absolute certainty that I’ll obey. Heat floods my body, my fingers moving without thought.
He keeps thrusting, measured and deep, watching every twitch of pleasure cross my face. “Good girl. Hold it for me.”
“Please.”
“Please what? Tell me exactly.”
“Please let me come.”
I move my fingers faster, hips rocking into my hand.
“That’s it. Let go. Come for me now.”
The imaginary permission snaps everything. I shatter, my back arching off the mattress as the orgasm rips through me. I ride it out, hips grinding, drawing every last pulse. I imagine him erupting into me, flooding me with delicious, thick warmth.
The haze fades. I slip my fingers from between my thighs and let out a sigh. What is this man doing to me?
I stare at the ceiling. My heart thuds, the fantasy melting and quickly being replaced by reality creeping in along the edges.
Roman is my boss. He’s a Bratva kingpin. He has enemies. He’s got an amazing son who needs stability.
He’s a killer.
Yet, last night in the dark, he held me with a gentleness I would’ve never expected from a man who’s taken lives. I roll over, lost in thought.
Roman appears in my mind’s eye again, along with a question: Could this actually go somewhere?
