He is my hero even though he’s dressed in villain’s clothing. I want him to keep me. I want to be his little punished slave girl. Or whatever he wants me to be so long as he’s doing his dominant thing.
He rubs my ass then grips it with both hands and plants a kiss on one cheek. “You’re not too sore from earlier?”
I am a little sore, but I love feeling well-used by him. I love remembering how completely owned he made me feel. Not degraded–although I’m into that, too–just fully claimed.
“No,” I say. “I want it.”
“You want me to pound you with my big, hard cock?”
Ooh, he does dirty talk so well.
“Yes,” I whimper, giving my ass another waggle.
He spanks me some more, warming my ass up with firm, stingy slaps. By the time I hear the crackle of the condom wrapper, I’m desperate for him.
I shimmy out of my panties and widen my stance.
“Beautiful girl,” he murmurs, stroking a hand down my hip.
I register the soft-firm touch of his cock against my entrance, and I push back to take him.
“You going to take my cock like a good girl?” Despite the dommy words, he eases into me.
“Yes, sir.”
He starts up a rhythm, slowly gaining in tempo. “On your knees,” he orders in a guttural tone when it’s time for a change. I climb onto the bed on my hands and knees, and he continues in that position, gathering my braids and tugging them back. “You like have your hair pulled?”
I don’t like the actual feeling in my scalp, but I like him controlling me. Like feeling a little forced, even though I know I’m safe with him.
“Yes,” I pant.
He tugs a little harder, bringing my head back and forcing me to arch my back. “That’s so pretty, malyshka,” he says, and butterflies take flight in my belly. Pleasing him pleases me. “You’re so wet, my Kit-Kat.”
He remembered my nickname! I’d told it to him on the first night.
Also, he called me his.
Warmth wraps around me like a blanket. And then I’m too hot. Too needy.
“On your back,” Adrian commands, in tune with my need for a change in position.
I roll to my back, even though missionary isn’t my favorite position. Not to worry, he quickly makes it work for me by wrapping a large hand around my throat. He doesn’t squeeze at all, just holds my throat, showing me he could choke me if he wanted.
His lids are heavy, lips are parted. He shoves into me with punctuated, hard thrusts that make sounds rocket from my throat. If he weren’t holding onto my throat, he’d drive my body up, and my head would bump into the wall. I’m his captive. Literally and sexually.
Funny how I’ve never felt so free.
So unbuttoned. So met. Accepted. Bridged.
This man is my match.
If only I could keep him from getting himself killed.
I surrender completely to the sensations–the pleasure of Adrian moving inside me. The intensity of our position, the sight of his muscles straining in his chest and arms, the way his teeth clench around his ragged breath.
“Adrian,” I moan, and his gaze snaps to my face, almost in alarm. Like me calling his name during sex was the same as telling him I was falling for him.
But then he returns the intimacy. “Kat…. Kat.”
It’s too much for me. A cry of pleasure echoes around our tiny room, and my internal muscles seize.
“Oh, fuck,” Adrian mutters, going still for me, then pumping faster than ever until he reaches his own shouted climax. His fingers close around my throat–I don’t think he even realizes, and I go with it, letting him squeeze out my breath. It brings on another equally strong orgasm, and I come and come beneath him, all over his cock.
“Oh shit, Kat.” He releases my throat like it’s a hot iron. “Baby. Malyshka. Kit-Kat.” He strokes my neck. “Are you all right? I’m sorry.”
My eyelids flutter open, and I give him a dreamy smile. “I’m good. I loved it.”
“Gospodi.” He pulls out and drops beside me. “I thought I hurt you.”
My smile widens. “You did.”
His gaze turns fond, a smile playing on his lips. He kisses the bridge of my nose. “Beautiful, wild, funny girl. What will I do with you?” He backs off the bed, removing his condom and disposing of it.
“Keep me,” I suggest.
Adrian
I arrange Kat on the cot with her head in the proper direction and lie down beside her.
Her words, keep me, bounce around in my head.
I want to keep her. To take her back to Chicago and fall madly in love with her while doing bad things to that hot little body of hers.
“Why were you living in England, Kat?”
“I already told you. My father sent me away.”
“But after prep school. Was it your choice to stay in England?”
She rolls into me, resting her head on my shoulder, sliding her hand up my t-shirt to run her nails through the hair on my chest. “Yes.”
“Why? You said you don’t have friends there.”
She doesn’t answer, which makes me suspect there is an actual reason.
My heart thuds with an unpleasant notion. “Was it for a guy?”
Her light laughter relieves the jealous choke-hold on my throat. “No. I stayed for pottery.”
“What?”
“My last year of prep school they got a new art teacher. She talked them into buying a pottery wheel and a kiln, and she taught us all how to throw pots. I fell in love.”
“You love pottery.” I don’t know why I find that so satisfying. I guess I’m just happy that she has something. Something she loves. Something to work for. To believe in.
That’s all any of us really need, isn’t it?
For the past year, mine has been finding Nadia and then revenge. The ideas consumed me. Changed me. Made me into a hard, brutal man.
What if I’d found something so sweet and simple and perfect as pottery? Some art form that trained me into a meditative flow.