Total pages in book: 126
Estimated words: 118309 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 592(@200wpm)___ 473(@250wpm)___ 394(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 118309 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 592(@200wpm)___ 473(@250wpm)___ 394(@300wpm)
I don’t want to fight, especially since everything she said is gospel, so I interrupt her. “You’re right. I did wonder what his response would have been, which is exactly why I didn’t drink.” I jingle the package in my hand. “But I still don’t see this helping.”
Zoya shrugs. “You won’t know unless you try.” She pulls her ‘luggage’ off the sofa she dumped it on before pulling out the made-up bed beneath. “Look at that, a fancy-schmancy bed solely for me.”
“Remember those words when you’re whining about a sore back in the morning.”
She shoos off my warning with a wave of her hand like a bad back isn’t a regular grumble of hers. Zoya is only twenty-eight, but she has the joints of an eighty-year-old.
“Are you sure you don’t want to share a bed with me?” I raise the package in my hand. “I could test this out in the bathroom. It seems to be my venue of choice of late.”
Zoya looks tempted to nibble on the bait I just threw out but thinks better of it when she spots the dark circles plaguing my eyes. “I’m sure. Sleep well. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Since she seems just as eager for some alone time, I tell her I love her before entering the main bedroom of our suite.
It is as opulent as the rest of the hotel. The king-size bed looks tiny in front of a wall that hides his-and-her walk-in closets. The bathroom is bigger than my entire apartment, and there is a jetted tub next to a double-headed shower.
“You should see the size of the bathroom, Z. It is massive.” I assume I miss Zoya’s reply because my voice is echoing in the bathroom, but I am proven wrong when my return to the living room unearths an empty space. The sheets on the foldout bed aren’t even ruffled. It appears Zoya left the instant I was out of eyesight.
“Maybe she wanted to give you some privacy,” I murmur to myself.
I love Zoya, but I’d rather dig a pen in my ear than hear her in ecstasy.
Perhaps she feels the same.
After showering and setting my alarm clock, I climb into a bed that is as soft as a cloud. It should take me no time to fall asleep. It is almost dawn, I’m mentally exhausted, and my body is acting like I underwent eight grueling rounds with World Champion Jacob Walters. Still, no amount of pleading sees me falling asleep.
I do the trick my sleep therapist suggested when my mother took me to her for advice during my senior year of high school. I pretend each limb in my body is weighed down and heavy from my toes to my neck, but the instant I reach my face, a thought pops into my head, and my muscles loosen up.
Zoya’s gift catches my attention when I roll onto my side to rest on the cool half of my pillow. It isn’t close to heatwave temperature here, but it is far nicer than the weather we’ve been experiencing in Myasnikov.
Zoya wasn’t lying when she said that night ten years ago was the last time I slept solid. I haven’t had over six hours in a decade.
Although I’m skeptical about her theory, with how weighed down my limbs have been since Maksim left the washroom, I test it by sliding my hand beneath the panties and silky pajama shorts combination I’m wearing under a loose T-shirt.
Shockingly, my clit is still firm and buzzing with excitement.
I swallow the thick knot of anxiety lodged in my throat before brushing my fingertip over the nervy bud. Excitement bubbles through me when the briefest touch elicits a ton of friction. It reminds me of the waves that rolled through my stomach when Maksim touched me for the first time, and how euphoric it felt when he slipped his finger inside me.
Within seconds, my fingertips dampen, and a faint lust-inspiring scent streams through my nostrils.
Pleasure skitters through me when I roll the tips of my index and middle fingers over my clit. I stimulate it until there’s no doubt of my aroused state, and my limbs sink deeper into the mattress.
My shoulder blades almost join when I switch my fingers for my thumb. I swivel my clit like Maksim did while fucking me with his fingers before lowering my fingertips to the wet crevice between my legs.
“Please,” I plead when a sensation I’ve never experienced when attempting to self-pleasure commences forming. It isn’t as blistering as it was when Maksim brought me to the brink of climax, but its intensity can’t be denied.
I’ve tried to get myself off many times in the past decade. This is the closest I’ve come to experiencing anything near enjoyable.
I groan when tingles race across my pussy before I lift my hips, seeking firmer contact. I pretend that the thumb toying with my clit doesn’t belong to me. That it is a part of someone far more appealing—someone far more dangerous.