Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 94640 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 315(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94640 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 315(@300wpm)
“Yes,” I whisper when he suckles, and when it’s too much, I rake my fingers in his hair. “Oooh, easy. Yes, yes, like that.”
The flat of his tongue presses before he sucks again and circles my clit.
I can feel the first spasm of pleasure coming, my need increasing, my ability to hold self-control gone.
“Come on my mouth, baby.” His hot breath brands my inner thighs. “Come on my tongue. I want to hear you. Let yourself go, Anya.”
My hips jerk, my breath is a moan, a scream I don’t recognize escapes my lips, and then I come. My climax is so hard I'm boneless, pleasure wrecking every cell of my body. My vision blurs, my pulse races, electric waves of pleasure washing through me and erasing all else.
He licks me to perfection, and when he's done, and I sag onto the bed half spent, he drags the back of his hand across his mouth and meets my eyes with a wicked, rare smile that makes my heart flutter in my chest.
“You liked that,” he says with obvious pride.
“Armph,” is all I can say. I’m incapable of actual words.
I watch him in a daze as he unbuckles his belt and tugs it through the loops. Then he unfastens his pants and pushes them down, his thick cock springing free.
I want him inside me so bad I’m practically salivating.
A nervous flutter tickles across my chest. I've never seen a man this close before, not like this. Ophelia and I have giggled over videos and pictures and things we read online, but this—this is next level.
He still wears his T-shirt, but it clings against the planes of his muscles as if the fabric worships him like I do.
“I'll do my best to take you slow," he begins.
"Please don't,” I say in a whisper. "Please."
"Jesus fucking Christ," he growls before he leans his weight on me and presses the head of his swollen cock to my soaking hot center. I hold my breath, but he only shakes his head. "Breathe, Anya,” he says, bending his mouth to my neck and kissing me there. I giggle because it tickles, but it still makes me wet. “Spread your legs. Relax. Don't tense up; you can't tense up."
His voice is so soft and gentle it’s hard to imagine why I hated the man I thought of as being so cold.
He slides the head of his cock inside me, and I let out a moan.
“Did that hurt?” he asks, trembling with the effort of holding himself back.
I shake my head. “A little.”
“Alright, baby,” he whispers in my ear. “Let me make it better.”
The first thrust brings both pain and pleasure. So much pleasure.
Too much. Too good.
My pulse races. I was unprepared for the way this feels. My arms encircle his neck. He stills inside me, the walls of my pussy hugging his cock. "Are you all right?” he asks quietly in my ear.
I nod. “I’m so good,” I whisper back. “But you need to move, or I might die.”
I'll do anything to see the corner of his mouth quirk up again like that. The fleeting smile feels like a victory. My cold strategist disarmed. He obliges, pulling back before thrusting in again, a slow, deliberate rhythm that makes me whimper as pleasure unfurls inside me.
Each movement pulls me in deeper as he thrusts, building a rhythm of pleasure and pain.
“Anya,” he whispers.
My nails bite into his shoulders as my world shatters into brilliant shards. My climax blinds me, overwhelms me, wrecks me. He pumps into me, spilling his hot seed with a groan as we come together.
His forehead meets mine. Our breaths mingle, and our fingers entwine.
Vulnerability flashes in his eyes before he blinks it away, but I see it. I savor it. I cherish it.
The man hidden beneath the cold façade… scarred, burdened, but so capable of what terrifies him more than any enemy ever could.
With a kiss to my shoulder, he cocoons me in the pink blanket.
A door opens outside the room.
“In here.”
Chapter 17
SEMYON
Anya panics and holds the pink duvet tighter around her.
“My father,” she hisses. “Semyon!”
“Get dressed,” I tell her, drawing a gun. I open her bedroom door and close it shut behind me.
It’s a small place, so I’m immediately in front of Lazar, Anya’s father. He didn’t come alone.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” Lazar snarls. “Kopolov. I thought giving you my daughter was enough.”
“Anya and I came here to pick up some of her belongings.” I level my cold gaze on his associates—one short, older man with a potbelly, his jowls swinging when he turns to look at Lazar. The other is balding, thin, and frail, but for the cold promise in his eyes. He leans on a cane and looks at the two of us with mild curiosity, the way one might survey an animal caught in a trap. Behind them, strapping bodyguards are stationed, all armed.