His scent as I lowered my mouth onto his cock was pure masculine musk, clean and thoroughly male, earthy and intoxicating, not diluted with the citrus and forest wood of his cologne.
“Jesus, Lexi,” he uttered with a catch in his throat.
I licked up the front of his cock with the flat of my tongue and then plunged over the top again.
“That’s good, my angel. Fuck yeah, that’s good.” His voice was so low, his words were a rumble in his chest. “Fuck, I’m not going to last. Look up at me.”
I was right at the top of a stroke, so I flipped my eyes up to meet his ice blue eyes locked on mine, and I ran my tongue hard around the tip of his cock and then let it plunge as far back into my mouth and throat as I could, pumping up and down on it while I looked deeply into his eyes.
His whole body went rigid under my arms bracing myself on the chair on either side of his thighs, and he threw his head back, his neck straining.
Yeah,thatwas what I wanted to learn how to do to him.
He gasped like he was drowning and yanked at my hair, pulling my head away from him. The suction of my mouth released his cock with a hard pop.
And his hand went around his cock and pumped once, and his hips bucked.
I surged forward and grabbed his cock, shoving it into my mouth again, and I sucked.
His fingers dug into the hair at the back of my neck again and my shoulder, his whole body straining under my mouth and my hands on his hips. “Lexi, if you don’t want me to—Fuck!”
More wet salt flooded my mouth and tongue, spurts of it, clean and wet, and I swallowed.
His hands grabbed my shoulders, and he dragged me off my knees and my whole body into his lap and cradled me in his arms.
His voice was a choke. “Lexi, my angel, my Lexi.”
CHAPTER 25
demyan volkov: my daughter
DEMYAN VOLKOV
My daughter was sobbing in my office again.
My office in Las Vegas hotel suite was trashy with gold-painted trim, and desert air was so dry that my lips were flaking off. I wanted to go home to St. Petersburg where air did not hurt my mouth.
My daughter, however, was insisting we needed to stay in Las Vegas for whole week.
And so, Monday morning, this child, fruit of me and love of my life, was once again unhappy and weeping with her face in her hands across desk from me, and I was powerless to make her happy again.
When she was happy, my Alina was beautiful little woman, a pampered poodle of a creature who had known no hardship.
Her country had never fallen from corruption to more corruption to yet more, and yet you must make living.
She does not think of any country as her own because she has never despaired as one waned.
None of her friends died by hands of other brava who then must be fought like lions to survive.
But some of her pretty weakness was my fault. I should have raised her like son.
I should have raised her at my knee, watching as I did business, instead of sending her to international boarding schools to meet “right” people.
She was expelled from Le Rosey school for fighting and bullying. They said they were instituting “language caps,” that no more than ten percent of students could speak same mother tongue, for diversity.
Diversity.When did Le Rosey care aboutdiversityother than what was exchange rate you paid your tuition in?
Really, too many Russian bratva brats with steel in their bones were beating up effete blue-blooded southern Europeans, and so the “school of kings” expelled the Russians.
