“I don’t know you, and you don’t know me,” I answer with a shake of my head. “That’s the God’s honest truth. So no, I’m not going to risk it.”
He raises a hand and strokes my face with the back of his knuckles. “You are very loyal. Even to those to who you are not related by blood.”
I can’t tell from his tone if he considers that a good or a bad quality. But it’s not a question. So I don’t answer.
“Okay, krasotka. You can keep your friend’s name. I accept your apology.”
Thank goodness. I reach for the hem of my tank, ready to strip. This is what he’s turned me into in just a short time.
But before the tank’s even halfway up my stomach, he says. “I did not give you permission to strip.”
“But you said…” I start.
“I accept your sorry. Forgiveness is not yet achieved.”
Oh…
I sit there, dejected. Not sure what to do with my hands. Or the throbbing ache in my core. Then it occurs to me to ask, “What do I have to do to earn your forgiveness?”
His answer comes immediately. One simple word. “Beg.”
“What was I doing before?”
“Submitting,” he answers.
“What’s the difference?”
A smile almost makes it to his lips. “Perhaps you should start with asking permission.”
Asking permission… I think. Then shove aside what little dignity I have left to ask him. “Can I take off my clothes?”
“No.” His answer is short and cruel.
But then he says, “There are other things you can ask for. Other things I might grant.”
I think some more. “Please, can I touch you?”
“What part of me?”
“Your…uh…thing?”
“My thing?” he repeats like it’s a super foreign word he’s never heard before. “You mean my cock, da?”
I nod. My cheeks aflame.
“Say the real word then,” he commands.
“Your cock. Can I touch your cock?”
He regards me for a cool moment. Then nods.
I’m deeply aware of his eyes on me as I unbuckle his trousers and unzip his pants.
That’s the hardest work I have to do, though. One tug, and he springs out. Completely ready to go and dripping pre-cum.
“I should make you suck,” he says. “But I won’t. Do you like that, pet? Do you like how hard you make me?”
A question. I wordlessly nod.
“Do you think your nameless friend would get me to this state?”
Another question. And I’m torn about my answer. But I have to admit, “Men love her, but she doesn’t do boyfriends, so she’d probably be way better at a five-day hookup than me. And she’s stunning. Like, way prettier than me.”
He scoffs. “Nobody is prettier than you, krasotka,” he tells me in a chiding tone. Like I’ve just tried to convince him the sky is purple. “And I am not what you think. I do not do this every weekend. No other woman makes me crazy hard like this without any effort. Only you.”
Before he said that, I wasn’t sure what my next request would be. But now it burns in my chest, obvious and clear. “Can I…can I kiss you?”
His eyes flare with surprise.
Then he nods, his gaze somber on mine.
I lean forward and press my mouth into his. The kiss is soft at first. Almost innocent. But then he cups the back of my head and thrusts his tongue into my mouth. I’ve French-kissed before, but this is different. His tongue tugs on mine like he’s trying to pull me into him.
I’m so out of control. My hips frantically grind into his as we kiss. And oh God…the shorts move. Allow me to feel a flash of his hard length against the side of my pussy.
That’s all the inspiration I need.
“Can I…can I put you inside of me?” I gasp against his mouth.
“Da,” he answers, his voice rough.
That’s all the invitation I need. I grip him tight and use his long length to push the soaking wet crotch of my shorts aside.
It’s crazy how easily I slide him in. And though he’s the one who insisted on playing these games with me, we both groan when I sink down all the way to the hilt.
He pumps into me a couple of times. But then curses in Russian. “Condom…”
I curse, too, unable to believe I forgot it. You’d think that would kill the mood. But I simply lift off and wait as he retrieves one from his wallet.
“Hurry,” I say.
He smiles and kisses me again while his hands move between us.
I reach down to put him back in when he’s done. But he gently pushes aside my hands. Then he not so gently at all, fists the band of my shorts and yanks.
The thin material falls away with a ripping sound. Leaving my pussy completely exposed.
Cheslav takes immediate advantage, gripping my hips and driving himself in. I groan. The pleasure is jarring and my pussy throbs at the harsh but delicious penetration.
I guess he’s done playing with me. He fists my shirt and tears that off too. Then both hands come up to my chest as he fucks me hard.
“Do you see how crazy you make me?” he growls as he takes me. “Like animal.”
Yes, I do. But I can’t feel sorry for him because he makes me crazy too. For reasons that have nothing to do with money, or saving Clem, I drive my hips up and down on his dick, meeting him stroke for stroke.
And sooner than I expected, I can feel the rising tide. “Please can I come? Please can I come?” I beg, my voice thin with need.
His green eyes suddenly connect with mine, his expression unexpectedly tender. “Yes, come, my pet. Come now with me.”
We both yell out in the next moment. Cheslav goes rigid while I quiver around him like jelly. Then we collapse into each other in a loose-armed sort of hug.
We breathe heavy, finally sated. But then I feel his hand in my thick hair, tugging my head back.
“What…?” I start to ask.
But I lose the question when he hits me with another hard kiss.
I don’t just receive his kiss. I return it. Not caring a fig how swollen my lips might feel tomorrow morning.
And as we kiss, I reverse something I thought about Cheslav earlier.
He doesn’t play to win, I realize.
No…
He plays to conquer.
Chapter Nine
The next couple of days pass in a strange mix of passionate sex and hockey games. Then it’s Monday and time to call off work.
As a junior accountant, a lot of my work was done earlier in the tax season. I sent out 1099s and did most of the prep work for the few clients who turned all their stuff in more than a month before the deadline.
Still. March is not the month that any accountant in her right mind would ask for days off. So I don’t. I lie about being too sick with the flu and not being able to come until Thursday.
“Yes, I think staying home is probably for the best,” Laurie, our office manager. says, “I’ll have the other associates email you with any questions. Get well soon!”
I’m shocked by her response. I’d been bracing to get grilled about my symptoms. Last March, accountants had to be at death’s door if they called in sick. There had been so many people coughing and sneezing in the office, I’d known my annual flu shot was probably working overtime just like me.