Page 47 of My Wedding Night Massacre

“I mean that your body is something I’ve been thinking about for three years,” he says, his hand still moving slowly across my skin, “and every time I got my hands on you today I had to remind myself to slow down because I wanted to do exactly this.” His palm spreads flat across my stomach. “Take my time. Feel all of you.”

“Come here,” he says, and lifts me onto the kitchen counter without waiting for an answer, stepping between my thighs, his mouth finding my throat.

I grip his shoulders and tip my head back and let him work down my neck, my collarbone, his hands moving over my body.

I get my hands in his hair and pull him back up to my mouth. He kisses me deep, his cock hard against me through his jeans, and I reach down between us, find his belt, work it open with both hands. He stays still and lets me, his mouth still on mine, his breathing changing as I get the button undone, the zipper down, my hand pushing inside.

He’s hard when I wrap my hand around him, thick, heavy, the skin of him hot against my palm. I pull him free of his jeans and hold him there, feeling the full weight of his cock in my grip, the way he pulses against my fingers. He exhales sharply through his nose against my mouth, his hips pressing forward involuntarily, a small, helpless movement that I feel everywhere.

I stroke him once, base to tip, slowly, my thumb dragging across the head where he’s already wet. He makes a low sound into the kiss.

I do it again. Slower.

His forehead drops to mine, the kiss breaking, both of us just breathing. I tighten my grip and stroke him again, feeling every ridge of him, the way his cock jumps slightly when I twist my wrist at the top. His jaw is tight, the tendons in his neck standing out, all that control barely holding.

I slide my hand lower and cup his balls, feeling the weight of them, rolling them gently in my palm. He sucks in a breath, his hips going still, his hands gripping the counter on either side of me. I take my time, massaging slowly, feeling him twitch in my other hand while I work, watching his face come apart piece by piece.

“Pavlina.” My name, low, warning.

I tighten my grip on his cock and stroke again, my other hand still cupped around his balls, and he stops trying to say anything at all.

He puts his hand between my thighs and strokes me through my underwear, feeling how wet I already am. I inhale sharply, but I don’t let go of his cock. I tighten my grip instead, slow and deliberate, feeling him go rigid under my hand.

He hisses through his teeth.

“There it is,” I say against his ear.

I tighten again, just enough, and he makes a sound low in his chest that I feel against my palm. I stroke him once, my thumb dragging across the tip, and his hand at my thigh goes still.

“You’re at my mercy,” I whisper, impressed by my self-control. “Three years, Slava. Three years, I thought you were dead. You owe me.” I press my lips to the corner of his jaw. “So you’re going to give me exactly what I want, and you’re going to do it exactly the way I tell you.”

He turns his head toward me. His eyes are dark, his jaw tight, his cock thick and heavy in my grip. A ghost of a smile plays on his lips.

“Pull my underwear aside,” I say.

He does.

“Now touch my pussy,” I say. “Just the outside. Don’t go inside yet. Just stroke me, slow, top to bottom, feel how wet I am.”

His fingers find me and do exactly that, one slow stroke through my folds. I inhale, my grip on his cock tightening reflexively. He hisses again.

“Again,” I say. “Slower.”

He strokes me again, slower this time, his fingers dragging through my wetness. I press my mouth to his throat and let the sound out.

“Now find my clit,” I say. “Don’t rub it yet. Just press. Right there, hold it.”

His thumb finds it and presses, steady, no movement. I feel it everywhere, the pressure of it, the stillness, the anticipation of what comes next.

I tighten my grip on his cock and begin stroking him again, matching the stillness of his hand with the rhythm of mine, watching him fight to hold the position I’ve given him.

“Good,” I say against his throat. “Now circle it. Slow circles. Don’t rush.”

His thumb begins to move, and I stop breathing for a full second, the sensation immediate, his cock jumping in my hand as I tighten around him involuntarily.

“Slower,” I manage.

He slows, his thumb tracing circles against my clit. I stroke him in the same rhythm, the two of us locked together in this, him following every instruction, me barely holding onto the control I’ve claimed.