“Sorry,” he pants.
Mikolaj has never apologized for anything before. It sounds so odd that I almost laugh.
I keep my eyes open, enthralled by the sight of him. His body looks insanely sexy, his arms tensed, every muscle on his chest and stomach flexing.
He keeps pumping his cock in and out. My jaw is starting to hurt but I don’t want to stop. He’s looking down at me and I’m looking up at him and we’re locked together in this thing that is intimate, intense, and impossible to stop.
Then he closes his eyes and tilts his head back on the pillow, and I feel his cock start to pulse in my mouth. He lets out a long, low cry. My mouth is flooded with warmth, slippery and salty but not unpleasant.
His cock is still pulsing, so I keep sucking, not wanting to stop too soon.
When it’s finally done, he lets go of my head and grabs my arms instead, pulling me up on the bed so he can roll over on top of me.
He kisses me, not caring if the taste of his cum is still in my mouth.
This kiss is nothing like the one in the ballroom.
Mikolaj is still warm and heavy with sleep. His lips are softer than I would have imagined possible.
“What are you doing, little ballerina?” he growls.
“I couldn’t sleep,” I say.
“I know why,” he says.
Now he’s the one sliding down the length of my body. He stops at my breasts, taking each one into his mouth in turn. He sucks on the nipple until it’s fully hard, then he gently rolls and squeezes it between his fingers while he sucks on the other.
Then he goes further down, all the way between my thighs.
I have the impulse to push him away. I’m nervous that I might taste or smell bad. I wish I would have checked, before I came in here.
But Mikolaj doesn’t seem any more concerned with the state of my lady bits than he was with my mouth. He buries his face between my thighs, licking my pussy in long, wet strokes.
Oh my god, I never imagined anything could feel that good.
I’ve touched myself before, plenty of times.
A tongue is so very different from fingers. It’s warm and wet, and it seems to awaken nerve endings that I never knew existed.
It sends a flood of moisture out of me, so much that I worry for a second that I’ve wet myself. Mikolaj is still licking and kissing me down there, totally unconcerned.
He moistens one of his fingers and slides it inside of me. I gasp, thinking it’s going to hurt. I don’t usually put anything in there, not toys or my own fingers, because it’s painfully tight.
Even though Mikolaj’s finger is much larger than mine, it seems to fit perfectly inside me. Probably because I’m more aroused than I’ve ever been before.
Actually, it feels much better than tolerable. It feels incredible.
His finger gives me something to grip around, while his tongue is lapping steadily at my clit. It seems to increase the sensation, so I can squeeze on his finger while grinding my clit against his tongue.
I can feel that familiar sensation starting to build—the start of a climax. But god oh god it feels so much better on his tongue than on my pillow. It feels like a warm bath and a massage and the sexiest dream imaginable, all rolled into one.
The pleasure builds and builds until I’m almost afraid.
Then the orgasm goes rushing through me, flooding down like a waterfall.
I’m bucking my hips against his face, trying to smother my cries in the pillow. I’m embarrassed to be this loud, but also, I can’t give a damn, because it just feels so good.
I shout and squirm. Then it’s all over and I’m lying there, panting and sweating, thinking how crazy this is.
Mikolaj has given me the most pleasurable moment of my life.
We’re looking at each other across the pillow.
I think he’s as lost as I am. He doesn’t know what to do.
He kisses me once more, softly on the lips.
Then he says, “Go back to your room, little ballerina. Don’t let anyone see you.”
Quietly I slip out of the bed and I run back the way I came, my body weak with pleasure and my head spinning round and round.
21
Miko
The next morning, everything is as usual.
When I come down to the main floor, I can hear Nessa practicing up in her studio, with a new record playing on the turntable. She must have finished choreographing one dance and started the next.
The house looks the same as always. My face looked the same in the mirror, after I showered and dressed.
And yet, I feel completely different.
For one thing, I’m actually hungry.
I go into the kitchen, where Klara is clearing up the remains of the breakfast she made for Nessa.
She looks startled to see me, since I usually only have coffee in the morning.
“Is there any bacon left?” I ask her.
“Oh!” she says, bustling around with the fry pans. “Just two pieces—but give me a moment, I’ll make more!”
“No need,” I tell her. “I’ll eat this.”
I grab the bacon out of the pan, eating it where I stand, leaning up against the island. It’s crispy and salty and slightly burned. It tastes phenomenal.
“I can make more!” Klara says, flustered. “It will only take a minute. That’s probably cold.”
“It’s perfect,” I say, snitching the last sausage from the pan, too.
Klara looks alarmed, either from the fact that I’ve come into the kitchen, which I never do, or the fact that I’m in a cheerful mood, which also never happens.
“Is Nessa in her studio?” I say to Klara, already knowing the answer.
“Yes,” she says cautiously.
“She likes to work. I hear her in there constantly.”
“That’s right.”
Klara probably respects that. She has a highly-developed work ethic herself, doing the job of at least three people with all the cooking and cleaning and errands she runs for us.
I pay her well. But she drives a twenty-year-old Kia and carries a canvas tote as a purse. She sends all her money back to Poland, to her parents and grandparents. Jonas shares those same grandparents. He doesn’t send anything back, despite making a lot more than Klara.
“You’ve taken good care of our little prisoner,” I say to Klara.
She sets the pans to soak in the sink, running the water and not looking up at me.
“Yes,” she says quietly.
“You two have grown close.”
She squirts dish soap onto the frypans. Her hand trembles slightly, and some of the soap lands on the faucet. She wipes it off hastily with the sponge.
“She’s a good girl,” Klara says. “She has a kind heart.”
There’s a note of reproach in her voice.
“Did you know she learned to speak Polish?” I say.
Klara stiffens and her eyes fly guiltily to my face.
“I didn’t mean to teach her anything!” Klara gulps. “She picked it up so quick—I thought she’d learn the word for ‘spoon’ or ‘cup’, just as entertainment. The next thing I knew she was saying sentences . . .”
Klara’s explanation comes tumbling out, her cheeks flaming with anxiety. She doesn’t have to convince me—I’ve seen for myself have clever Nessa is, and how perceptive. She looks like an innocent little faun, but her mind is always working a thousand miles a minute.