I pause as I digest that—the unexpected turn-on of hearing he wants to collar me like a pet as well as his consideration of my tribute to my father. I throw myself at him again, kissing his mouth, my tongue twining with his as he rolls a condom on and holds his cock steady for me to sink onto.
“That’s it, zayka. Forget your spin class. You can ride me.”
I laugh and bounce up and down over his cock, loving how powerful and sexy I feel. How interesting and admired.
No one has ever made me feel this way before.
I love it, and it destroys me at the same time.
Because I have to remember—this isn’t real. It’s thirty days to Zane’s freedom.
Nikolai’s a player, and this isn’t real.
That doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy it while I’m here.
Nikolai holds my waist and helps me as I fatigue. I close my eyes, drop my head back to let my long hair brush my spine and just enjoy the delicious sensations.
After riding a peak, we slow our rhythm, and I change to a more circular undulation of my hips, grinding my clit against his loins. We breathe together. Time slows. Maybe it stops. We’re suspended in this place of carnal pleasure. Nikolai pinches one of my nipples, rolling and tugging it between his fingers and then suddenly slow is not enough. I ride him in earnest, like my life depends on reaching that climax.
“Don’t come until I give you permission,” he reminds me.
“You’re mean,” I pant, getting close. So close.
“Be careful, or I won’t let you come at all.”
“Mean,” I repeat. Maybe I’m half-goading him. I sort of loved that spanking he gave me the night I got drunk at the Red Room. It hurt, but it was hot.
I can tell he’s getting close because he doesn’t answer. His mouth is open, jaw slightly forward. “You’re sexy when you’re mean,” I admit.
He pinches both my nipples at once, hard, and I cry out, my orgasm starting.
Nikolai grabs my hips and shoves up inside me at the same time he yanks me down, getting deeper than I would’ve thought possible. He repeats the action again and again and then shouts something in Russian and comes. Reaching between us, he rubs my clit with his thumb and the rest of my climax tumbles out, my muscles spasming around his thick cock, milking the rest of his seed into the condom.
“Oh my gawd,” I pant, rocking slowly over his cock, arching my breasts toward his face each time.
“You broke the rule.” Nikolai’s blue eyes are warm, his smirk sexy as hell. “No spin class for you.”
I stop rocking my hips and open my mouth wide in protest.
He gives the side of my ass a light slap. “I am mean.”
“No spin class ever or just not this afternoon?”
“Depends, Freckles. You’re going to have to show me how good a girl you can be.”
I pull a pout. “Maybe I didn’t want to be a good girl.”
He chuckles and lifts me off his lap. “That’s what I suspected.” He removes the condom and gets up. I reach for my clothes, but he stops me with a sharp, “Clothes stay off” as he walks to the bathroom to throw the condom away.
“What if I get cold?”
“You won’t be. Come here, little bunny.” He takes my hand and leads me to the end of the couch, where he pushes my torso down.
“Wait, no—” I say when I realize what he intends, but it’s too late. His hand cracks down on my bare ass with a resounding slap.
“Ouch!” I squeal.
He doesn’t stop. He delivers a dozen or so swift slaps while I dance in place then stops and rubs my ass. “Is that what you wanted, Freckles?”
“No,” I sulk, even though it is. The sting of his slaps is already morphing to heat and tingling between my legs.
“You’re lying.” He spanks me a few more times.
I laugh out an “ow” and rise up on my tiptoes, relieved when he stops once more to massage away the sting.
He leans down and bites the side of my waist. “You’re so damn cute.” He gives me one more slap. “Let’s make dinner. You can put my shirt on, but only my shirt. I can’t wait to see how you plan to use all those groceries.”
13
Nikolai
“Slice these for the olive and caper sauce,” Chelle instructs, spilling a handful of olives out of a jar onto the cutting board.
I pull a knife out the drawer and start. “I don’t even know what that means,” I admit. “How many slices?”
“What?”
“How many slices? To each olive?”
She laughs. “I don’t know—as many as you can get. It doesn’t really matter.” She moves around my kitchen swiftly, grabbing things from the refrigerator, turning on the oven.
I savor the way it feels to have her here.