“Why?”
“Just shut up and kiss me,” I say.
His face hardens, and for one moment, I mistake it for offense. I swallow hard. I don’t think anybody has spoken that way to him before. But then I realize what it is. His pupils are dilated, and darker than I’ve ever seen before. That’s not anger.
Then he’s on me again.
His knee presses into the mattress between my legs as his mouth finds mine. I arch into him without meaning to. His hand slides up my body and cups my breast through the nightdress.
I make a sound into his mouth, and he stops for half a second.
Not to be gentle. To listen.
Then his thumb drags over my nipple, slow and firm, and my hips lift off the bed.
“Oh,” I breathe.
His mouth moves to my neck again. “That?”
I hate the amusement in his voice.
I hate more that I want him to do it again.
He does.
He palms my breast, squeezing, teasing my nipple through the thin fabric until I’m squirming beneath him. My hands grip his shoulders. I don’t know where to put all of this feeling. It’s too much and not enough at the same time.
I never understood this before.
With Dmitri, touching was something I endured and tried to understand. With Yaromir, my body reacts before he even finishes deciding what to do to me.
It’s humiliating. It’s addictive.
Yaromir pushes my nightdress up slowly, exposing my stomach, then higher, until my breasts are bare. The air hits my skin and I tense.
His eyes go darker. “Beautiful,” he says.
Then his mouth closes over my nipple.
I gasp so loudly I shock myself. My back arches. His hand grips my waist, holding me down as his tongue moves over me, hot and deliberate. He sucks harder, and pleasure shoots straight between my thighs.
“Yaromir—”
“I know.”
“You don’t.”
He lifts his head, his mouth wet, eyes locked on mine. “I do.”
Then his hand slides down my stomach.
I freeze, and he notices immediately.
“Say stop and I stop,” he says.
My heart pounds. His hand is still on me, warm and heavy, but he doesn’t move lower. He waits.
I hate him for waiting.
