I pull out nearly to the tip, then slam back inside. Hard. Fast. The bedframe bangs against the wall. She screams my name, and I lose myself. I fuck her with everything I've held back. Ruthless, pounding thrusts that drive her up the mattress. I hook her knees over my elbows, spreading her wider, deeper, angling so Ihit that spot inside her with every brutal stroke. "Who owns this pussy?" I snarl.
"You do," she sobs, her breasts bouncing with every impact. "Only you."
"Fucking right." I reach between us and rub her clit in tight, merciless circles. "Come for me, myshonok. Come on my cock like a good girl. Give it to me. Now."
She shatters. Her orgasm rips through her, her back arching like a bow, her core clamping down on me so violently my eyes roll back. I follow her over. I thrust deep one final time and erupt, my release pulsing hot and endless inside the condom, my roar lost against her neck. I keep moving, milking every drop from both of us, until we're trembling, wrecked, my weight collapses over her smaller frame.
I don't know how long we lie there. My heart is hammering against hers. She strokes my hair softly. I should move. I'm too heavy. I roll us onto our sides, still inside her, unwilling to break the connection just yet. Eventually, I slip free and deal with the condom. She winces. The sight sends a strange, warm pang through my chest. I scoop her into my arms—she weighs nothing—and carry her to the bathroom.
The shower is large, all black marble and rainfall jets. I set her down and turn the water to a soothing warmth. She stands there, swaying slightly, her eyes half-closed, while I lather a washcloth. "Come here." I pull her under the spray and begin washing her. Gently. Methodically. Between her legs, over her sore breasts, down her trembling thighs. She hisses when I pass over her swollen sex.
"Sore?" I ask.
"A little," she admits quietly, looking down.
I tilt her chin up and capture her mouth in a slow, deep kiss. "Don't worry, mysh. That discomfort is me on your skin. Me inside your memory. It fades. But I don't want you hurting."
I finish cleaning us both, then shut off the water and wrap her in a soft towel. But I'm not finished with her. My cock is already stirring again, heavy with need. I dry her quickly, then lead her back to the bed, sitting on the edge and pulling her to stand between my knees. "There is one more lesson for tonight," I say, stroking my length slowly, watching her eyes track the movement. "On your knees, little mouse."
She obeys, sinking to the carpet with that same breathtaking trust that makes me want to ruin her all over again. I gather her damp hair in one hand, holding it back so I can see her face. "Open your mouth."
Her eyes widen. But then she looks down and licks her lips. That one tell. One little move nearly undoes me. So eager. So willing. I guide my cock between her lips, feeding her just the head at first. "Tongue flat. Like you're licking something sweet. There. Just like that. Fuck. Good girl."
I teach her. I show her where to suck, where to swirl her tongue, how to hollow her cheeks. She's an absolute natural, her brown eyes watering as she takes me deeper, her hands braced on my thighs. I praise her constantly, my voice a ragged litany. "Beautiful. So fucking beautiful. Look at you taking my cock like you were born to serve it. Such a fast learner. My perfect, dirty girl." She moans around me, the vibration making my spine tingle. I'm not going to last. I pull back with a wet pop and fist my cock, stroking hard and fast. "Stay right there. Look up at me. Don't you dare look away."
She gazes up through her lashes, her lips swollen and parted, and I explode. Thick ropes of come stripe her chest, her collarbones, the tops of her full, gorgeous tits. I groan, long and guttural, painting her skin with my mark. When I'm finished, I lean down and scoop up my release with my fingers. I rub it into her breasts slowly, massaging it into her nipples, her cleavage,marking every inch of her soft skin. She watches me, fascinated, her own arousal evident in the way she squirms.
"There," I murmur, my voice thick with satisfaction. "Now you wear me properly. My little mouse. My willing student." I capture her mouth one last time, tasting myself on her tongue. "So fucking perfect."
3
Laura
When I wake, I find the bag just inside the bedroom door, handles creased, paper still crisp where my name isn’t written but must have been spoken. Inside: a pair of jeans that fit the dip of my waist without gaping, a soft sweater the color of storm clouds, a toothbrush still sealed in plastic, a comb, my favorite toiletries. Someone, somewhere, paid attention to details they had no business knowing. My sizes. My preferences. I dress slowly, unnerved by the accuracy of it all, and follow the smell of coffee. I find Maxim in the kitchen.
He didn’t cook. He ordered. The room service cart is loaded with enough food for a small luncheon—eggs four different ways, a pyramid of pastries, jeweled cups of fruit, toast fanned across a silver rack, shakshuka bubbling in a cast-iron dish, blini stacked beside caviar, something dark and rich that smells of cinnamon and fig. Enough for eight people, arranged across the marble counter. It’s too much. It’s overwhelming. I stand in the doorway and stare at it.
He doesn’t look up from the newspaper he’s reading—actually reading, broad sheets of actual paper that dwarf his hands—seated at the counter in a clean black shirt with his sleeves rolled to the elbows and his coffee cradled in one palm. The morning light kisses his cheek through the penthouse glass.
“Eat something,” he says. Not a suggestion.
“You ordered one of everything.”
“I didn’t know what you liked.”
The simplicity of that—I didn’t know what you liked—cracks me open. I sit down and reach for the eggs benedict, then the fruit, and dig into a scrumptious blueberry muffin. Nobody has ever ordered one of everything for me before. This violent, impossible man with seventy-two-hour background checks and a bar full of expensive whisky apparently operates on the principle that if you don’t know, you cover all available ground.
He pours me coffee without asking and sets it at my elbow. I look at it. Cream, exactly right. The shade I prefer. Not close—exact. “Lucky guess?” I say, wondering how he's doing this.
He turns a page of the newspaper. “Something like that.”
“Tell me about your students,” he says.
I look up. He folds the paper. Like the question is casual. Like he asks this kind of thing over breakfast with strangers all the time. “My students?”
“The six-year-olds.”
I study him for a moment. The line of his jaw, the bruised fatigue beneath his eyes that softens when he thinks I’m not looking. “Why?”
