“Make me come,” I moan. “Yakov, please.”
Without warning, he moves between my legs, his mouth sucking on my lower lips. His tongue slides against me, claiming me, possessing me with unbearable expertise. His fingers resume that slow, steady pumping while his mouth sets a fevered pace, and within seconds, I’m close to the edge, teetering on the brink, everything narrowed to the aching heat low in my body, the tingling electricity shooting through my limbs.
My thighs begin trembling, dangerously close, and he seems to sense it because he pulls away at the last second, raising his head to meet my gaze as his hand takes over the task.
“Yakov!” I scream, my voice a fever pitch of need.
The bastard smiles, and the rare glimpse of unchecked joy, vulnerability, and need on his face sends me over the edge. His mouth descends once again, and the orgasm rips through me with brutal force, my back arching clear off the mattress as waves of pleasure wash over me.
I’m still reeling, still processing, as I feel him moving over me, his mouth coming to rest at my ear as his hands tangle in my hair. His clothes are gone, but I can’t remember when he got rid of the rest of them.
“Look at me,” he murmurs, and I obey, locking eyes with his. “It’s your turn to taste me.”
I nod, clumsily, only understanding his meaning when he gets up and brings his cock to my face. My lips part instantly,hands coming up to caress his hips, his thighs, drawing him deeper into my mouth. When he hisses with pleasure, I take him even deeper, swirling my tongue around his shaft with enough pressure to make him groan.
Yakov’s hands bury themselves in my hair as he guides his length deeper into my mouth. I relax my throat, welcoming every inch of him until my lips brush his groin. “That’s my girl,” he growls, his voice thicker than ever as he fucks my mouth with measured, deliberate movements.
“I can’t wait much longer,” he rasps, pulling out after only a few thrusts. But it’s long enough to coat my tongue with salty sweetness that leaves me dizzy.
Without a word, he lifts me onto all fours. He kicks my knees wider apart, and then his hands are on my hips, pulling my ass back against him until he’s at my entrance.
“More,” I whimper, pressing back against his cock, so empty, so desperate for him to fill me.
“If it’s too much,” he starts, sounding more animal than human.
“I want it,” I counter, forcing a note of authority into my voice even as my body quivers with anticipation. “I want everything.”
The guttural sound he makes is almost feral, and without further warning, he shoves his cock into me, spreading me open on the length of him with a slow, deliberate movement that makes my eyes roll back into my head.
“Fuck.” His hands tighten almost painfully on my waist as he pushes deeper still, testing the limits of what I can take. But I won’t beg for mercy—not this time, not ever.
“Yes,” I breathe instead. “Fuck me.”
With a growled curse, he obliges, pulling back just enough to slam into me with brutal force that has stars bursting behind my eyelids. In this position, with my hands grasping the sheetsand his fingers digging into my hips, he feels bigger, thicker, and the slight pain only enhances the pleasure, a delicious, decadent flame burning deep within me.
His pace quickens, drawing closer to the edge, and I arch my back even further, shameless in my need to draw every ounce of pleasure. The feel of him so deep, the way his thighs slam against mine, the way he grunts with every thrust—it’s pure animal hunger, instinct amplified, neither of us certain we’ll survive this but also uncaring.
“I can’t—” I gasp as another orgasm threatens to tear me apart. “Yakov?—”
“Come for me,” he orders, breathless. “Let me feel it. Let me hear it.”
I obey, shattering in a white-hot explosion of pleasure. Yakov follows, gripping my hips hard enough to bruise, filling me with his seed in warm jets that signal his surrender.
When it’s over, when the aftershocks finally ebb and our breathing returns to something like normal, he gathers me in his arms and pulls me against him until our bodies are arranged in perfect symmetry.
“So,” he whispers into my hair, his voice drowsy with post-orgasm bliss. “What’s your answer?”
“To what?” I’m so warm, so safe, so perfectly nestled against his chest that I can hardly remember my name.
“To the arrangement,” he says, planting a soft kiss on my temple. “Will you move in?”
“I think we should talk first,” I decide, some small part of me still afraid of being hurt.
He stiffens slightly. “About?”
“The future.”
43
