Total pages in book: 187
Estimated words: 177397 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 887(@200wpm)___ 710(@250wpm)___ 591(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 177397 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 887(@200wpm)___ 710(@250wpm)___ 591(@300wpm)
Part of me is furious I let this get this far. The other part, the clearly unethical part, won’t let anything stop it. Shock waves of pleasure careen down over me, making me a shuddering mess, and I am desperate to come. But can I do this? Can I disregard another woman’s feelings so my ego can be stroked?
No, I can’t.
“You can’t be here. You need to go. I don’t want you here.” With words not getting through to him, I get desperate. “Mikhail could come back at any—”
A hand clamps my mouth shut at the same time a warm and probing tongue invades my pussy. It spears in deep before it does a long, leisurely lick of my insides.
One lick and my campaign to be on the right side of good is undone.
As my thighs sweep open, pleasure cascades down my spine.
Two fingers slip between my legs next. They gather up the wetness before dipping into my pussy at the same unhurried pace of his tongue.
My brain screams at me to buck him off me and make out this isn’t exactly what I am craving, but since I am as desperate for him to bestow my clit with a heap of attention as I am to stop this, I breathe through the sensation threatening to swallow me whole and act like the submissive I will never be.
It is an act worthy of an Oscar, but the instant Andrik’s tongue curls around my clit, I crumble like a dried mud pie left on the asphalt being run over by a Mack truck.
An orgasm crashes through me as frantically as a tsunami races to shore. It is uncontrollable. Wild. And devastating.
It tells my head what my body was trying to express only moments ago.
That Andrik owns my orgasms as much as he does me.
I will never let him know that I’ve worked that out, though. The instant he unclamps my mouth, the first thing I’ll tell him is that I will never be his.
I just need him to stop eating me. Stop consuming me. Stop making me feel so wanted that I don’t care how many baby mommas or wives he ends up with.
He doesn’t, though. He continues devouring me as if I am his favorite dessert until I scream his name into the tattooed hand muffling my mouth and then collapse from exhaustion.
29
ANDRIK
Iwake with a monstrous hard-on.
That isn’t unusual. I am in my peak sexual prime. But this one is different. It isn’t morning wood that will go down in a minute or two. It’s not even an erection inspired by the hope of sexual gratification. It is my body’s response to the closeness of his mate, and how making her orgasm over and over again was more satisfying than any release I’ve ever achieved.
I wanted to come last night. I wanted to fuck away the frustrations that have been bombarding me for the past month. Like all my greatest plans over the past four weeks, the urge flew out the window the instant I realized why Zoya couldn’t bring herself to climax.
She doesn’t want some random’s head between her legs.
She doesn’t even want my brother’s.
She only wants mine.
The knowledge had me banging my chest like an ape—and acting like one too.
I wanted to make Zoya scream my name so loud it would ring in my ears for a week. Mercifully, with barely a second to spare, I remembered that my needs aren’t the only ones I’m striving to answer.
There are ears everywhere. As stated previously, they more than triple when the king is in court.
My grandfather is in this region of Russia for a reason, and as much as I want to pretend that isn’t true for a few more hours so I can relish the taste coating my lips and fingers, I can’t.
The faster I play this game, the quicker I will win.
Zoya murmurs when I pull my arm out from underneath her before replacing my chest with a pillow. I’m still mostly clothed. I only removed my jacket when the image of Zoya with her eyes fluttered shut and her cheeks flushed made the conditions too stuffy to ignore. I toed off my shoes a second before climbing into bed with her. The rest of my clothes remained untouched.
It is cool this morning, but a nonoperational AC unit isn’t the reason I pull Zoya’s covers up tight. It is the beady watch of my little brother. His lower back is balanced on the wrought iron railing of Zoya’s shared balcony, and his sleeping pants are low enough to expose he’s still not a fan of underwear.
“You don’t think you should wake her before sneaking out?” Mikhail asks when I collect the shoes I left near the armchair in the corner of the room.
I join him on the emergency exit stairwell. “No.” My reply is curt. It can’t be helped. I hate having my authority questioned. It is worse when it comes to Zoya. “She needs sleep. She is exhausted.” And how the fuck am I meant to explain something to her that I don’t even understand? I tried last night, and I miserably failed to make sense of anything.