She hesitates a moment then nods. “Yes.”
The elevator doors open, and she steps out. I stand there a moment, digesting her unexpected agreement. But then, she’s always agreeable. And it nearly always shocks me.
She turns, waiting for me to come out. “What does malysh mean?”
“Baby.” I step out and touch her cheek.
She doesn’t pull away—a good sign.
There’s something different about Kayla, for sure. A steel beneath her softness that isn’t usually there. Half of me thinks we’re galloping swiftly to our end, but I can’t be sure.
Maybe she’s still digesting what happened.
Despite my idea that this is the moment that could—should—end it all, and that I should welcome that outcome, my desire to fix this—to scoop her into my arms and hold her like we’ve just finished a particularly intense scene sizzles and pops beneath my skin.
“Pavel?” There’s a little pop of her lips on the “P” that makes me think of how badly I want those lips open around my cock, and then my name comes out like a little puff of air. “Master?” she corrects.
“Da?” I loop an arm around behind her back and pull her up against my body.
Her lips tick up when I speak Russian, like she thinks it’s hot or something. “Can you… can we…”
I cock my head. I’m good at reading people, but I have no idea where she’s going. I can detect lies; I can’t read minds. “Say it,” I command in no more than a whisper.
She swallows like she’s nervous to ask me.
“What do you need, malysh?”
“I want you to fuck me.”
I don’t wait. I tuck my forearm under her hips to boost her up and carry her, straddling my waist toward our hotel room. I’m still trying to decipher why she hesitated to ask. “Did you mean just fuck you?”
She nips my earlobe. “Please, Master.”
I manage to extract and tap the keycard against the handle then kick the door open. “How do you want to get fucked?”
“Hard. Rough. Underneath you.”
I set her down and peel off her dress. She’s flushed, her hair tousled.
The ugliness of the convenience store seeps away. Maybe the night’s not so ruined.
“You want missionary sex.”
She checks my face, and when she sees I’m teasing, gets flirty, “Yes, but with a very rough missionary.”
“Hmm. I’m not sure those exist.” I unbutton my shirt and toe off my shoes. “Lose the clothes. Missionaries definitely don’t wear heels and thigh-highs to bed.”
She scrambles to obey as I strip out of my clothes, too.
“Open the bed. We have to be under the sheets, right?”
“N-not necessarily.”
I reach past her and yank down the bedcovers. “I’m just giving you a hard time. Get in bed, printsessa.” I follow her in and crawl over the top of her. “Close your eyes.”
I wait until she’s obeyed before I part her thighs and lower my head to lick into her. She’s already wet and juicy. “What got you wet, blossom? Me fighting for you?”
“Yes,” she admits.
I want to ask more, but she tastes too good to continue the interrogation. I roll my tongue around her clit, lick her sex like a juicy peach. I don’t stay long enough to make her come—my cock aches to be inside her already—again.
Always.
I climb over her and slide in, groaning inwardly at how good it feels. “You need it rough, baby?”
She rocks her hips up to meet mine. “Yes, sir. Yes.”
I pull back and slam in hard, bracing one hand against the headboard. “This hard?” I thrust again, throwing out my free hand to catch her shoulder when I realize her head is going to hit the wood.
Her eyes roll back in her head. “Yes.”
Well, damn. Missionary never felt less vanilla. The same heady power courses through me as when we scene. Her moans mingle protest with desire as I hold her in place to drill her.
I move my hand from her shoulder to her throat. I’ve held her throat before but loosely, symbolically. Now I have to hang on to keep her from hitting her head. Her eyes fly open, alarm registering.
The sadist in me fucking loves her fear, and I slam in even harder. I know I won’t hurt her, but she doesn’t know how far I’ll go.
She cries out, so I know she can safe word if she needs to. I’m not cutting off her air. Her cries grow frantic, needy. Her legs thrash beneath me.
All the adrenaline that pumped through my veins at the convenience store finds its release now—given a far more delicious purpose the moment Kayla made her request. I’ve never needed to fuck so hard. To violently pleasure myself and a partner.
Kayla sobs with desperate desire. “Master.” I don’t know if she’s begging to come or for me to stop, but the pleading word brings on the hardest orgasm of my fucking life.
I come and come and come inside her, forgetting to give her permission.