Page 153

Needed me.

The thought detonated inside my ribs.

I kissed him deeper, devouring, tilting his head back until he groaned, until he tightened his grip on me, until there was no space left between us, not a breath, not a thought, not an inch of sanity.

I ground down on him, dragging a sound from his throat that shot straight to my cock. His head fell back against the couch, mouth open, eyes half-lidded, looking at me like I was heat and gravity and oxygen combined.

“Stanislav…” He exhaled my name like a prayer.

He dug his fingers into my ass again, guiding my hips, urging me to move harder, faster. I did. I couldn’t not. Every grind sent pleasure ripping through both of us, sharp enough to be a warning and a promise.

I broke from his mouth long enough to breathe against his jaw, “This why you stole from me today?”

He huffed out a wrecked laugh. “Maybe I wanted your attention.”

“You have it,” I growled, rolling my hips so our cocks aligned perfectly. He shuddered. “Every reckless, infuriating part of you has it.”

His eyes snapped to mine. Bright. Wild. Wanting.

And absolutely unrepentant.

“Good.” He dragged me down into another kiss that felt like fire catching dry wood. “Then punish me for it.”

I got to my feet and unknotted my tie, motioning for him to give me his hands.

When he did, I wrapped the silk around his wrists and tied them behind his back, pulling tight enough to make him aware of every shallow breath he took.

“Why do your punishments always involve tying me up?” he asked, eyes locked on me like he was already imagining the next ten minutes… the next hour… the whole damn night.

I didn’t answer. I let him watch instead as I kicked my shoes off. Watch as I slid my belt free in one smooth motion. Watch as I unbuttoned my shirt, one slow, deliberate snap at a time.

His gaze burned over every inch of me—my chest, my scars, the trail of hair leading down beneath my waistband—and the hunger there nearly dragged me back into his lap.

But I wasn’t done tormenting him.

“Keep your eyes on me,” I murmured.

He obeyed, pupils blown wide, chest rising in clipped breaths.

I shucked my shirt, dropped it onto the armchair, then hooked my thumbs into the waistband of my pants and pushed them down my thighs. His eyes darkened when he saw the jockstrap—the black one he liked, the one that barely covered anything and lifted everything he’d missed touching for two weeks.

He swallowed hard, lips parting.

“There he is,” he rasped. “My pretty little pakhan.”

A tremor rolled through me.

“I’m not pretty,” I said, but it came out rougher than intended.

I crossed the room to the small closet in the corner and opened it. Spare clothing. Towels. A few things we’d bought to clean up once we were done.

One item hung dead center. The short, black pleated skirt. The one he’d brought last time just to see if I’d wear it. The one I hadn’t worn for him yet. He’d been disappointed, but he hadn’t pushed me. He never did, but gave me time to acknowledge my desires.

I lifted it from the hanger, and he inhaled sharply.

“Oh fuck,” he whispered. “Do it. Put it on for me.”

He sounded wrecked already. I slipped the skirt over my hips, adjusting the waistband until it sat perfectly low.