Even if that’s not really what I want.
Or is it?
Fuck.
Fuck.
Yes!
I slam hard into Lucy and stay deep, tumbling over the edge into orgasm.
She comes around my cock, her inner walls squeezing my dick, massaging out every last drop of my seed.
I don’t know how long I stand there on my knees, buried deep in Lucy with the room spinning. After a moment, I become aware of her whimpers. I catch her around her waist and tug us both to our sides, staying inside her. I reach around and rub her clit, and she comes some more, wringing another mini orgasm out of me.
I groan, my arm tightening around her. I rock my hips, pumping slowly in and out as I float in the ecstasy produced by the release. The sense of well-being. Of gratitude. Some might mistake this moment for love.
I’m not so foolish.
I rub her clit again, and she squeezes around my cock again.
Still, this must be the closest I’ve ever come to feeling love. The connection and affection I feel with her is real.
I nuzzle her neck and kiss a patch of skin I find under her soft hair.
What will you do with me? She wanted to know.
Keep you.
I wouldn’t. I won’t. She doesn’t deserve it. But if I were selfish. If I were truly the bastard she believes me to be… I’d keep her forever.
Tied up on my bed.
Filled with my cock.
Moaning my name in that hoarse, desperate way of hers.
Lucy. My brilliant, well-defended attorney-lover. The woman who doesn’t trust me to father her child.
The woman I want to turn inside out. Master.
Love.
Yes, love.
I do want to love in this lifetime. Too bad I’m even more defended than she is.
Chapter 9
Lucy
After a snack and a brief nap, I wake to find Ravil standing at the window. He turns when I sit up.
“How do you feel, beautiful?”
I stretch, feeling the relaxation in my limbs. A slight soreness between my legs. The lingering sensation from having something plugged in my ass.
Amazing. I feel incredible.
Not that I’m going to tell him that.
I climb out of bed.
“Are you going to let me out of this room now?”
I shouldn’t sound so testy. Not after he just devoted himself to giving me the most incredible orgasm of my life.
“Yes,” he says mildly. “I’m going to take you to the rooftop pool.”
Pool is a magic word to any pregnant woman, I guarantee it. I perk right up. “Do I have a swim suit?”
“I packed one for you. But you could swim nude if you like, too. The pool is private.”
Skinny dipping isn’t my thing although after our afternoon session, I am feeling far more comfortable in my skin than normal. I find my bikini and put it on. The bottoms still fit, but my breasts spill out of the top.
Ravil’s gaze falls on them, hungry. He grabs and holds out a terry cloth robe that’s too large—probably his—and I slip into it. Then he changes into a pair of turquoise and navy swim trunks.
Like always, I stare at his chiseled, tattooed chest. The light dusting of golden hair across his chest. He tosses my flip flops out of the closet and comes out in a pair of his own, two beach towels tucked under one arm.
It’s a different look for him, and if it weren’t for the prison tattoos, he’d look like a California lifeguard. Blond, built and manly. Not wholesome. But it’s almost like I can see how, under different circumstances, he could’ve turned out wholesome. At his core, he’s not an evil man.
He can’t be—not with the care he takes with me.
Can he?
I ignore his hand when he holds it out but let him lead me out of the penthouse and up a short flight of stairs to the roof.
There, I nearly gasp at the scenery. There are large potted trees. Flower boxes. Colorful umbrellas. Fake grass gives it more color. We round past the roof fixtures, the concrete walls cleverly concealed with bamboo fencing, and emerge at the pool.
Where a pair of teenagers are fooling around.
“Oh my God,” the girl squeaks. Her bikini top is off, floating in the water, and she dives under to hide her bare breasts from us.
Her boyfriend turns around to face us. “Mr. Baranov!” He places his body in front of hers as he grabs the bikini top and surreptitiously holds it behind his back.
“I thought you said it was a private pool,” I murmur.
“I’m really sorry. I know these aren’t the open swim hours,” the boy stammers. His face is red although not as red as the neck of his girlfriend, who has her back to us, ducked down as she puts her top back on.
Ravil says something to him in Russian.
“No, sir,” he answers in English. The teen shakes his head emphatically. Seeing his girlfriend is dressed, he grabs her hand and tugs her toward the steps. “No, I swear we didn’t. I’m sorry we were here when we weren’t supposed to be. It’s just… no one’s usually here during private hours.”