“No.” Her reply is curt and final.
“Hmm.” I bite the inside of my cheek, then drop my phone onto the nightstand. “Why?”
“Because,” she huffs, tossing the white shirt to the floor, “I had a long day at the docks and I’m tired. Definitely not in a worshipping mood, sorry.”
My gaze stays locked on the fitted strap of the lacy bra around her bare back, and a pulse throbs between my legs when her pants join the crumpled dress shirt on the carpet.
Her smooth legs are sparsely covered by nothing but sheer lacy panties that barely hide the soft and succulent curves of her perfect ass and hips.
“You know, if you wanted an audience, iron lady, all you had to do was ask,” I murmur hoarsely, the playful comment slipping out before I can stop it. It’s flirtatious and intentionally provocative, designed to chip away at her icy composure. “Though I must admit, your choice of wardrobe today didn’t do you justice.”
She freezes and her back stiffens. Snatching a plush white towel off the rack, she wraps herself in it with sharp, exaggerated movements, pretending absolute annoyance.
“You think my outfit choice was poor?” she snaps, though the flush creeping up her neck betrays her.
I shake my head. “I think your body is fucking perfect, and it’s irritating when you hide it from me.”
My sincerity shocks both of us.
She turns to face me, and the feigned anger melts into something far heavier.
Our eyes linger on each other, and the room suddenly feels entirely devoid of oxygen.
Intense heat builds, thick and tangible, as I finally stand up and close the distance between us.
But I don’t touch her. No.
I slide into the bed and watch as she torturously decides whether to join me or head for the bathroom.
Expectedly, she chooses the latter, hurrying for the shower with her hands wrapped around the towel like a shield.
A few minutes later, she struts out, smelling like vanilla, shampoo, and the breezy scent of the ocean.
My cock throbs, swelling with need beneath my shorts, and I readjust on the mattress, suppressing a groan.
She turns off the lights and quietly retreats under the same heavy comforter. The space between us is charged with a silent, agonizing tension.
“Ptichka…” I call out into the darkness.
It takes a minute before her voice floats back softly. “Yeah?”
I say nothing.
The silence is deafening.
Every shift of the mattress brings an accidental brush of her skin. Our legs tangle beneath the sheets, and the thigh-to-thigh contact feels like a match struck on a powder keg.
I turn my head, my gaze lingering on the shape of her lips, and I wonder how they’d taste if I claimed them now.
I notice her reactions in the dark: the slight hitch in her breathing, the erratic pulse fluttering at her throat. We’re wrapped in a bubble of lingering fear, intense curiosity, and undeniable arousal.
“You haven’t said anything,” she whispers.
And I smirk inwardly, feeling a dark, ironic amusement washing over me. “You want me to say something?”
A heartbeat of thick silence passes before she speaks again, more softly, more unguarded.
“Yeah.”
