The baby news can wait fifteen minutes. Or twenty. Or however long it takes for him to do whatever he's planning to do that has his eyes looking like that.
He grabs my chin, tilting my neck up. I feel my chest heaving as he dips his head down, his lips brushing up against mine. From the first contact itself, I’m a shuddering mess. He puckers a few soft kisses, on the corners of my mouth, along the bow of my lips…and then…and then he slams his lips on mine.
I feel the wind leave my lungs as I moan, parting for him. His tongue slides against mine, demanding, taking, givingall at once. I can't breathe, don't want to, would happily suffocate if it meant not breaking this connection.
My hands are in his hair now, tugging, pulling him closer, closer, like we can somehow occupy the same space if I just try hard enough.
His hands, those massive, deadly, gentle hands, slide down my sides, mapping the curves of my body through the thin fabric of my dress.
When they reach my thighs, they bunch the material up, slowly, inch by excruciating inch, until cool air hits the tops of my thighs and his fingers brush bare skin.
Suddenly his grip changes. I hear a rrrriiip, loud in the quiet room, and my dress gives way, sliding off my shoulders in two torn halves.
For a second, all I can do is stare at him and that wild edge in his eyes.
"I liked that dress," I gasp.
"I'll buy you ten more," he promises, then drops to his knees in front of me like he's about to pray.
And oh god, the sight of him, kneeling before me like I'm his altar... It's enough to make my knees buckle.
His hands curl around the backs of my thighs, steadying me, thumbs brushing teasing circles just shy of where I'm already embarrassingly wet.
"Hold still,” he grips my thighs and forces my feet to part, planted on the floor, before his hands slide up to curve beneath my ass. My spine is welded to the wall, and I can’t tell if I’m melting or burning alive.
Then, he presses against my ass, pulling me closer till my pussy hits his mouth.
And…fuck, I’m inferno.
His tongue slides through my folds, devastating and full of force. My head falls back against the wall with a thud, the slight pain barely registering through the pleasure racing through me.
"Nikolai," I choke out, one hand flying to his hair, clutching tight.
He pushes a thick finger inside me, his wet, luscious tongue circling my clit. I think I sob in ecstasy.
Another finger joins the first, stretching, curling inside like he's seeing how far he can push me.
When he finds it, hitting that spot that makes the world go white, I nearly collapse. Only his arm around my waist, strong as steel, keeps me upright.
"That's it," he says, his breath warm. "Let me feel you. Let me taste how much you want this."
My body stops feeling like mine—it’s all him, all heat and urgency, every nerve pulled tight like a string about to snap. His touch builds a rhythm that pulls me apart and puts me back together, a rhythm designed to drive me insane.
And then, I come.
The orgasm hits like an asteroid, sudden and violent.
I cry out, walls clamping down around his fingers, body shaking so hard I'd collapse if not for his hold on me.
He doesn't stop, doesn't slow, just keeps going until the pleasure edges into something almost painful. Until I'm gasping and begging and not sure if I want more or if I'll die if he gives it to me.
Only when my legs are literally trembling does he finally pull away.
He stands, an Adonis if I ever saw one.
Mouth wet.
Eyes dark as sin.
