Then pulled—using it like a leash, his other hand cradling the side of my head with fingers digging in close to my nape. I forced my throat to relax and breathed in deeply through my nose.
It happened so fast I didn’t register him plunging into my throat until my nose hit his pelvis.
The belt held me in place. He swung his hips back and forth, and each time my head bounced back the leather forced me forward again—a pendulum he controlled entirely, my body moving on his terms, my throat his to use.
The man was fucking diabolical.
So diabolical that when my thighs pressed together they were already damp.
My hair had come completely loose, falling lopsided around my face, dangling uselessly. It didn’t slow him down. He deep-throated me with the focused intensity of a man who had decided this was how thepirozhkisituation was going to be resolved.
I made damn sure not to choke on him.
That was the only thing left that was mine to control.
“Da. Right there,” he groaned, pressing himself deep and holding — his hand flat against the back of my head, his hips rotating in slow grinding circles, working himself against my face.
I tried to blink back the tears. My eyes had their own opinion about that.
Just when I felt the first serious urge to tap out, he pulled back.
“You almost made me come,” he said, as though this were somehow my fault.
I dragged air into my lungs in desperate pulls, my chest heaving, my throat raw and grateful.
He pulled me to my feet and turned me to face the island. The belt hung loose around my neck. I didn’t remove it.
“Hands on the counter,” he said, and I heard the rustle of clothing behind me.
I placed my hands flat on the cold marble and glanced over my shoulder. His shirt and tie were already on the floor. He was stepping out of his trousers with the brisk efficiency of a man who had a plan and was moving toward it. He didn’t look particularly pleased with me.
I faced forward.
There was a large ornate clock on the wall directly ahead. Gold frame, Roman numerals, ticking with complete indifference to what was happening beneath it.
Note to self.
Text him back next time if running late.
Behind me the fridge opened. Rummaging. The fridge closed.
Was he stopping for a snack?
Something was placed beside my right hand.
A white ceramic butter dish.
And then, placed with equal deliberateness beside it—
A carrot.
I stared at both items.
The clock ticked.
I was still trying to work out what he intended to do with the carrot when he lifted the lid off the butter dish.
He scraped a generous chunk from the surface and I tracked every movement in my peripheral vision, hands still flat on the counter, heart rate doing something very unhelpful.
