“Y-You…” I manage between tight breaths. “You haven’t come yet.”
“And?”
“Well, I want to make you feel…” I moan. “Good. Please, Mikhail.”
“What makes you think I don’t feel good already?”
My fingers are slipping from where I’m holding my pussy open for him. His eyes flick there, noticing, and I strengthen my grip, opening myself even more than before, despite how sensitive every bit of my flesh feels. I simply can’t take another round of orgasms, so I do my best to obey him.
A hum of approval follows as he caresses my clit with his fingers, making me shiver. “If I wanted to take you all the way now, I could,” he says. “But I only get to see you like this forthe first time once, and I’m not going to rush it, no matter how sweetly you beg me.”
“But I—I…” I mumble, feeling the crest of another imminent orgasm, the rest of the words fading on my tongue.
“One more, sweetheart. One more.”
28
Cecilia
When I wake up in the morning, I’m alone. A handwritten note waits on my husband’s pillow, the letters bound in a chaotic yet stylish pattern, informing me to join him downstairs. I pick it up, brushing the smooth paper with my thumb. It smells like him, all smokey and rich, with an aroma ofI saw you naked last night.
A smile creeps up on me, my cheeks tingling with the memory of where his mouth was, of the sheer dominance he wrapped tight around my body like a silken chain, turning me into a pool of submission. God, how he devoured me, how he tortured me every time he said “one more”, and my body obeyed, shattering with yet another delirious release. I didn’t even know I could do that. But he did—of course he did.
“I’ll sometimes give you much more than you believe you can handle.”
I sit upright, hiding my face in my palms and bringing my knees to my chest. How will I be able to face him in broaddaylight without my face turning red? Because I enjoyed it, a little too much perhaps, and once he sees me at breakfast, he’ll know. He seems to know everything.
As I go into the bathroom to shower and brush my teeth, the memory stays with me. Especially because I’m standing here, in the exact same spot he carried me to wash off all the wetness between my legs. He kissed me too—slowly, desperately, his hand around my throat like a necklace as he pushed me into the shower wall and caged me. I burned with him, and it was exhilarating.
Jesus. What will it feel like when he’s inside me? Part of me is sulking over his decision to take things slow, while the other part is glad. My pussy feels sore today, even though there was no stretch, no intrusion other than a finger or two. I didn’t even bleed, that’s how careful he was. I don’t expect this to be the case, however, when he finally takes me.
I show up at the bottom of the staircase twenty minutes later, wearing an oversized cashmere sweater that falls off one shoulder and a short woolen skirt with black tights underneath. I’m growing fond of constructing my outfits in the morning and not just throwing on a random sundress like I used to. Maybe it’s because I like the way his eyes hood when he lays them on me.
He’s alone in the dining room in our wing, seated at the head of the table, an espresso in one hand and his phone in the other. A black suit hugs the taut muscles he used to pin me to the bed, his biceps flexing subtly under the material as he brings the cup to his mouth. When he hears my unsure steps, he slowly lifts his gaze. Our eyes meet, and I fill my chest with a long inhale.
He cocks his head in that familiar way of his, throwing me a smile that threatens to bring the apocalypse. “Good morning,” he says, his voice as stable and lilted as ever.
I clear my throat, the sound soft but necessary. My voice is still a little croaked from how much I moaned. “Good morning.”I stretch the sleeves of my sweater until they cover my palms. “I, um, got your note?”
He takes a sip of his coffee, pauses, then says, “Are you asking me?”
“What? Oh. No—I mean,I got your note.”
His answer is an outstretched hand, an invitation, so I slowly move around the table and take a seat. In front of me, fluffy pancakes, sunny side up eggs, bacon, fruit, and fresh bread with butter and jam wait on the table, the air sweet. The sun glimmers on the crystal tableware, creating small rainbows where the light disperses. When I look up at him, even his eyes are a little brighter, watching me like he doesn’t know where to begin.
“How come you’re still here?” I ask as I sheepishly slide a pancake onto my plate then top it with fruit. “You’re rarely around for breakfast.”
“I rarely have a reason to be.”
I glance at him sideways. “You mean the food isn’t a good enough incentive?”
“Not the breakfast kind, no.”
Weird man. Breakfast food is the best. “What kind, then?”
A slow grin. “You.”
I barely swallow down my bite, my cheeks catching fire. Under the table, my thighs press together, and I’m forced to squirm a little in my seat to find some sort of relief. Only there’s no such thing, not when he’s drumming that inked index finger on the table, as if he’s brewing something in that twisted mind of his.
