“That should not make me feel better.”
“Does it?”
She turned her face into the bedding. “Maybe.”
I smiled against her thigh and returned to her pussy.
She was sweeter when she stopped holding herself still. Her hips lifted in small, helpless movements, then bolder ones when I followed. I slid one finger through her wetness, circling her entrance without pushing in, and she gripped the bedding.
“Vadim.”
“I hear you.”
“It feels—” Her breath broke. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t need to know. Feel it.”
I sucked her clit gently, then harder when her thighs shook around my shoulders. Her hand found my hair and held on. Not pulling away. Pulling me closer.
I wanted to praise her.
I wanted to call her brave and perfect and mine.
Instead, I learned the pressure of her hand, the rhythm of her hips, the sounds she made when pleasure started to outrun fear.
I worked one finger into her slowly.
Her whole body tensed.
I lifted my mouth. “Pain?”
“No.” She sucked in a breath. “Strange.”
I stayed still. “Tell me when to move.”
Her eyes opened.
The city light caught in them. Dark. Furious. Wet at the edges for reasons that had nothing to do with sadness now.
“Move,” she said.
I did.
Slow strokes, shallow at first, my mouth returning to her clit while her body learned the rhythm. She got wetter around my finger. Her sounds changed, lower, less surprised. When I added the smallest stretch, she arched and pulled my hair hard enough to sting.
“There,” she gasped.
I kept it there.
She came with my name in her mouth.
Not softly.
Her back bowed off the bed, thighs clamping around my shoulders, pussy pulsing around my finger while I licked her through it. I held her down only enough to keep her from twisting away from the pleasure. She shook once, twice, then collapsed against the bedding, panting.
I kissed her inner thigh.
Then her hip.
