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“At least come for Christmas dinner tomorrow,” he said. “Please. It’ll be the last time we’re together before you leave.”

“Yeah,” I said quietly. “I can do that.”

But tonight Stanislav was going to moan too loudly for us to spend the night back at their place.

31

YURIY

Last night, Stanislav Zhukovsky tied me to the bed like he’d been waiting his entire goddamn life for the privilege. My wrists had been stretched above my head, a gag between my teeth, and his hand clamped around my throat the way I liked it. And then, like the arrogant, gorgeous pakhan he was, he’d climbed onto me and rode me with that cocky little swagger that made my mouth water whenever I thought about it.

It was, without exaggeration, the best orgasm I’d ever had in my life. And now it was my time to return the favor.

Stas woke up from a deep sleep to find himself lying flat on his stomach, his wrists tied together to the headboard.

“Yuriy,” he groaned, raising his head. He blinked groggily, the muscles in his back flexing instinctively as he strained against the restraint.

I lounged beside him, one elbow propped on the pillow, chin in hand, admiring the view of his naked body, especially the generous curve of his backside, like a man admiring expensive art.

“Merry Christmas, krasavchik,” I purred.

Stas blinked at me blearily, then down at the rope cutting prettily across his wrists. “Yuriy… what are you doing?”

“Making a thoughtful seasonal gesture.” I brushed a lazy thumb across the dip of his lower back. “Since you didn’t buy me anything for Christmas, I had no choice but to get creative.”

His brow furrowed. “I did get you something.”

“Hmm.” I patted the curve of his ass. I leaned over him conspiratorially. “But I wanted you to have something nice too. So I got you a present or two that I hope you like and that you’ll find very useful. I can confidently say you don’t have either.”

I reached to the side table, plucked up a glossy red bow with a little adhesive square beneath it, and smacked it gently onto the soft flesh just above his ass.

Stas froze. “Yuriy.”

“Yes, moy lyubeemiy?”

“You put a bow on me.”

I brushed my fingers over the ribbon, satisfied. “Now you’re festive.”

He groaned into the pillow. “I need a shower. I’m filthy from last night.”

“You’re perfect from last night.” I leaned down to kiss the top of his spine. “Still full of my cum like a slut should be.” I slid my hand down between his thighs to tease his entrance, still puffed and open. “Exactly the way I want you when you take my second load.”

He shivered, subtle, but I felt it.

I grinned and dragged out a small stack of wrapped gifts from under the bed.

“What’s all that?”

“Presents,” I said sweetly. “For you. But since you’re… indisposed”—I wiggled my fingers pointedly at the rope—“I will heroically assist with unwrapping.”

“God help me,” he muttered.

“That’s the spirit.”

I chose the smallest box first, white paper, candy cane stripes, tied with a black ribbon. I sat back on my knees, tore the top open, and held the contents up so the light caught on the glass.

A curved, elegant, red-and-white glass candy cane dildo.