When Ilya worked with Demyan instead of running his own bratva, he got shot, but this here is constant danger, constant guessing of whom to trust.
A sigh breaks free.
“What is it,malyshka?” he murmurs, his voice thick with sleep.
I turn to face him, and Albert’s paws thump on the ground as he jumps off the bed. “I’m thinking.”
“Yes,” he says, “I can hear it from here. The room is heavy with your thinking.”
“I don’t want anything to happen to you, Ilya,” I whisper, stroking my hand against his face in the darkness. His whiskers tickle my palm. “I don’t think I could bear losing you, too.”
I’ve known this man since I can remember. I’ve been closer to him than almost anyone. As close to him as I was with Max.
“Malyshka, I won’t leave you.”
“You can’t promise that.”
“It’s true that no one can,” he says, pulling me into him, “but I will fight the gods to stay here with you. The demons, too. I can defend myself, and I’m not easy to kill.”
Ilya takes my hand and places it against the puckered scar where he got shot.
“See?” he says. “Do you feel better?”
“No. You’re literally making me touch the place where you got shot.”
He laughs softly and kisses me, setting my mind and senses spinning, and I melt into him, kissing him back.
“I have a remedy,” he says, after breaking the kiss.
He slowly pushes me to my back, kissing his way down my body, his tongue sliding over my flesh, electrifying every place he goes. He spends time laving my nipples, sucking and nipping until I’m mindless, my body a sea of sensations. Every nip sends a lightning bolt of need straight to my clit, making it throb.
He continues down, over my stomach, kissing and bitingmy hip, and then lower, parting my thighs and biting me hard right near the top of my sensitive inner thigh. I cry out.
Ilya starts to lick all along my outer lips, sucking on them, making me crazier with each stroke of his tongue, each pull from his mouth. He stops just shy of my clit, working his way back down to start on my inner lips. Soon, he has an undulating rhythm going, licking, sucking, dipping his tongue into me, until finally he gives me what I want.
Fingers inside me and his mouth over my clit.
The thrust and suck are a perfect torture tool, a dreamy little foray between almost too much and almost not enough. Orgasmic pleasure lies right there in the center, but he knows what he’s doing, and he keeps me from reaching that high.
Torture.
Delicious, exquisite torture.
I pull at his hair, trying to get him to give it to me as I slide toward overload, but as he rubs against my G-spot with his fingers, his tongue does spectacular work. Only that work won’t give me what I want.
He just taunts and teases. Builds me toward that peak.
It’s too much. I try to get away, everything so heightened that it’s borderline actual torture. He holds my hip down with his free hand, head buried between my thighs, and he keeps at this pace.
I whimper and moan. It all falls on deaf ears.
And then he starts to twist and change. The too much becomes too little, and then I’m chasing it. I can feel that orgasm right there, hovering, if only I could get him to do this harder, faster.
He doesn’t.
His pace doesn’t change. The stroke of his tongue, the sucking of my sensitive clit stays the same. Incredibly, I heat up, and it’s there, coming, the intense pleasure, the wildness of bliss.
I come hard, exploding into a million pieces, my pussy spasming, clenching down on his fingers. My clit throbs in beats of joy until finally I float back together again, the orgasm fading away.
