“Not unless I’m at a beach.”
He put the plate down, leaned back, and turned to me. His face was getting more distant. “And pray tell. What happens when you’re at the beach, hmm?”
“I’m just in awe of those extreme surfers. When I was twenty-two, I went to Portugal.”
“The Nazaré wave.”
“Oh, you know that?”
He shrugged without saying yes or no. “And then you slept with a surfer.”
“I take the fifth,” I teased. I did. Before I could say another word, I was flat on my back and Kirill was on top of me, his hips wedged between my legs. I was wearing heather-gray sweatpants. I’d taken off its matching hoodie because it was really hot close to the fireplace.
His erection pressed along the center of my pussy, and he was rock hard.
With his face stoic and his eyes smoldering, a shiver raced from the top of my scalp to the tip of my toes.
“What?” I breathed.
“I hate,” he enunciated, “any man who was before me.”
“You say this now?” I asked incredulously. “You knew I wasn’t a virgin.”
“Funny thing is, I don’t care about the virgin part. I care that you’ve been intimate with them.”
Interesting enough, I understood him. Virginity could be lost riding a horse or a bicycle and, according to Mamma, some women don’t even bleed. What did a flimsy membrane of tissue have to do with intimacy? But the thought of Kirill being this close with another woman made me grit my teeth. I was jealous. I’d never been the jealous type.
“Did you love any of them?” he asked.
My chin jutted up. “I did. And you?” My boyfriend in college, but it was more of an uncomplicated love.
“Never. Who?” he asked. “Who did you love?”
“You expect me to tell you with that murderous look on your face?” It was scary, really, how his minute expressions could be daunting, made more sinister with the shadow play from the fire. “It doesn’t matter. I’m married to you, and…”
He started circling his hips, and torturous sensations intensified. My clit felt swollen, and ready to explode.
“We’re too old for dry humping,” I gritted.
He laughed darkly. “Not dry humping, Lusenka, this is orgasm denial.” I pumped up my hips to rub myself harder, but he backed away. “Ah, ah…”
The bastard was edging me. I’d heard about this before. My cousins had hinted at something like this. And I usually coveredmy ears or told them to change the subject because I didn’t want to hear about their sex life.
He yanked me up and dragged me over so I was sitting against the couch. I squeezed my thighs together and rubbed them against each other. He smirked and crawled over me to grab the plate of fruit.
We were eating now?
“I’m going to hand-feed you,” he said. “If you drip all over my fingers, you’re going to lick it up. If the juice is all over you…” His voice roughened. “I’m going to lick you clean.”
I inhaled sharply, feeling very suffocated—in a good way. Was that even possible? A warm sphere enveloped us. He took his time, holding my eyes captivated and appearing in no hurry as he fed me. A far cry from the urgency of the first time we had sex and the shower encounter earlier.
When he fed me an orange slice, I deliberately bit it in the middle. The juice trickled down the side of my mouth. His eyes flared, singeing me with their intensity before his face came closer and, like he promised, he licked my mess. He started at my jaw, and nibbled up from there, stopping at the edge of my mouth before he pulled back again.
We continued this game for a few more slices, the anticipation building between us, before he lowered the plate and put an apple slice partially in his mouth and fed it to me that way.
He watched me as I chewed, and when I swallowed it, he kissed me while simultaneously slipping his hand into my sweatpants, seeking the neediness between my legs. My cheeks heated some more because his fingers glided easily. He pulled back long enough to growl, “You’re soaked, Lusenka.”
He resumed kissing me. Gentle kisses that were coaxing, telling me what a good girl I was while the way his fingers ravaged me showed the opposite.
