His hand slides higher, and when his fingertips brush the thin fabric between my legs, I nearly cry out.
“Fuck,” he mutters, forehead dropping briefly to mine. “You’re soaked.”
The words are filthy. So is the way he says them, like he’s half furious and half obsessed with it.
My cheeks burn, but I don’t deny it. I can’t. Not when I’m trembling under his hand, not when every nerve in my body is screaming for more.
His fingers press against me through my panties, slow and deliberate, and I gasp, hips lifting helplessly into the touch. The pressure is just enough to make me crazy, not enough to satisfy.
“Aleksei, please…”
He groans low in his throat at the sound of his name like that. Then he turns me slightly, angling my body more fully against the counter, one hand gripping my hip, the other still between my thighs, rubbing me through the fabric in slow, punishing strokes.
I’m breathing too hard. The mirror behind me is fogging with each broken exhale. His chest brushes my back, his mouth at my neck, his body hard and hot and close enough that I can feel exactly how much he wants this too.
“Do you have any idea,” he says against my skin, “how hard it was to sit across from her when all I could think about was you?”
I whimper.
His fingers slip just beneath the waistband of my panties, enough to find bare skin, enough to make every muscle in my body lock with anticipation.
Then something in him snaps.
His eyes go dark. Really dark.
“Fuck it,” he mutters.
Before I can even catch my breath, he hooks his fingers into the fabric and yanks. The sound of lace tearing is shockingly loud in the bathroom, a sharp, filthy little rip that goes straight through me. I gasp, staring down in disbelief as he tears them clean off me and lets the ruined scraps fall to the floor.
“Oh my god?—”
He doesn’t answer. He looks at me.
At my thighs, trembling and slick. At the mess he’s exposed. At the way I’m already shaking so hard I can barely stand.
Then he drops to his knees.
The sight of him there, this huge, ruthless man kneeling in front of me in an expensive suit with his tie half undone and his mouth still red from kissing me, is so obscene and so perfect that I almost come from that alone.
“Aleksei,” I whisper, voice wrecked.
His hands slide up my legs, spreading me wider, his palms firm and possessive on the insides of my thighs. He looks up at me once, his eyes burning.
Then his mouth is on me.
I cry out, the sound bouncing off marble and mirror as his tongue drags through me, slow and thorough, tasting everything. He groans at the first taste like he’s been starving for this, like he’s wanted it for days and can’t believe he’s finally here.
“Oh—God?—”
He licks me again, deeper this time, and my knees nearly buckle. His grip tightens, holding me open for him, his thumbs pressing into the soft flesh of my thighs as he eats me like a man possessed.
There’s nothing careful about it. Nothing polite.
Just hot, hungry, relentless pleasure.
He works me open with his tongue, broad, deliberate strokes that make my hips jerk helplessly against his face. Every time I try to pull away from how overwhelming it is, he holds me there, making this low, rough sound in his throat that tells me he’s enjoying every second of my desperation.
“You taste…” he murmurs against me, breath hot and ragged. “Fuck, Zatanna.”
