“The time for thinking is over. I have one thing on my mind and one thing only.”
“The tickets…” But her heart wasn’t in it.
“I have to take you to bed. Now.”
He hooked an arm around her waist, hand tapping her hip impatiently. Then he dragged her through the Saturday shoppers and tourists, so fast she had to run, which was difficult in the unfamiliar high heels Maxine had put her in. The long velvet coat flew out behind her, net petticoats swished around her knees, and Milan bore her away to a place that now seemed ten times more appealing than the Royal Box at Covent Garden.
Chapter Six
It seemed that all the expensive wrappings and trappings had been bought only to be taken off. The moment Milan got her through the door of his flat he pushed her against the wall and began undoing buttons, his mouth all the while working on her with hungry determination. By the time the coat fell to the floor, her lips were softened and wet from kissing, her cheeks burning and legs weak. He covered her bare arms and shoulders with his hands while he nuzzled her neck. He reached around, found the fastening of the dress, worked on it with lightning speed. The petticoats went the way of the dress; then Lydia stood, or rather swayed, in her precious underwear and barely-there stockings, ready for sex. Ready to be ravished.
Milan directed his right hand to her breasts, while with his left he gripped the underside of one thigh, pulling it high to wrap around his hip. Lydia whimpered into his mouth as her pubic triangle made contact with his bulging crotch. He upped the ante, grinding it against her, maintaining the high pressure of his tongue inside her mouth.
The sensual abandonment he transmitted infected her and she lost herself in lust, twisting against him, drawing him in, glorying in the surge of blood and spirit he aroused in her. It was like a delicious, exhilarating version of a fight, a fight that would end in pleasure rather than pain. Lydia found strength she had not known she possessed, struggling to bring him closer and harder, pinching and clutching, biting and kicking, but always forced in the end to submit to his superior power.
He jammed her thighs apart, unbuckled his belt and loosened his trousers, then brought one hand beneath her bottom to lift her upward so that her feet left the floor. She whimpered in alarm, but Milan kept her pinned to the wall, firmly in position, so that she let go of her momentary panic and helped him work on getting her legs wrapped around him and her arms holding tight, ready for the act of ultimate contact.
He was able, though it didn’t look easy, to reach inside a shirt pocket and find a condom while keeping her in place. Lydia hoped he was mindful of her aching spine and already straining thigh muscles and would make this fast and hard.
Once the condom was on, Milan wasted no time in sheathing himself with pinpoint accuracy, filling Lydia before she could prepare herself.
She gasped, pinned inexorably by his erection, held against the wall by his quivering body. His heart hammered, through the material of his shirt, against her flattened breasts. His eyes, when she looked up, were dark, almost angry. It felt as if he was punishing her for something. For making him want her? For what she had said about Mary-Ann? For being female, being there?
Whatever the reason, it provoked him to push strong, powerful thrusts into her, slamming her bottom into the wall, grunting into her mouth.
There was no tenderness here. All was raw and animal, barely concerned with her pleasure. She began to be afraid, began to try and push him back, but he finished almost immediately, pouring out his orgasm and accompanying it with a nip of her lip that felt as if it had drawn blood.
He drew back, gasping all over her, holding her so tightly the breath almost left her body, still inside her but softening.
“Milan,” she said and her voice wobbled, on the edge of tears.
He dropped his head down to her shoulder and groaned as if in pain.
“I’m sorry, milácku,” he whispered. “So sorry. Did I hurt you?”
He lifted his face, searching her eyes, looking as stricken as she felt.
“A bit,” she admitted, her throat still thick and tight.
“I forget, sometimes.” He seemed to be speaking to himself.
Pulling out of her and discarding the condom, he gathered her into his arms and carried her into the bedroom, laying her gently on the bed while he crouched over her, stroking her sweating forehead.
“What do you forget?” asked Lydia in a broken whisper.
“That you’re a girl. And girls can’t always take it the same way. Evgeny likes it rough. I’ve got into the habit.”
“I thought I was going to break.” Tears slid down the side of Lydia’s face. Milan kissed them away.
“I promise I won’t break you. I am a stupid idiot. I get, what you say, carried away. Too much passion. I must learn to control it.”
“Violence isn’t passion.”
“No. You are right, Lydia.”
He lay down, holding her loosely, as if he thought anything tighter might snap a bone or two.
“Forgive me. I will be better next time.”