He gives my ass another hard slap. “You can’t refuse Ravil on this.”
I remain still, panting slightly, incredibly aroused.
He grips my hair and tugs my head back. “Natasha.” His voice is firm, demanding an answer.
“I’ll do it,” I say.
Dima relaxes his grip on my hair but keeps it wound around his fist.
“On one condition.” My heart pounds in my ears, at my wrists, in my temples.
He releases my hair completely and delivers three hard spanks. “You’re not making the conditions here, amerikanka.”
I look over my shoulder at him. “I think I am.” I no longer believe anything terrible will happen to me. Dima wouldn’t let it happen, and Ravil gave him responsibility for me. Which means I have the chips to bargain with.
Dima’s eyes narrow. “What is your condition?”
I’ve never felt so vulnerable, and it has nothing to do with the position I’m in. It’s what I’m about to ask. “Tell me why you can’t be with me. Because I know we both feel something.”
Dima sucks in a breath, then his jaw hardens. “No.” There’s no missing the note of stubbornness in his voice. “That story is not for you, Natasha. I’m not for you.”
I fight back the stab of rejection, the flush of shame that climbs up my throat. But no, he didn’t deny what’s between us. He just wants to hang onto his ghost. I still think we’re worth fighting for. “Then I’m not going out with Alex,” I tell him.
His face darkens. “You think you will win this battle with me?”
“Yes.”
Dima won’t hurt me. I’m sure of it. He has feelings for me, whether he’ll admit them or not.
He rips my panties down my legs and grabs my ankles, pulling me toward him until I slide to my belly. He disappears for a moment, stooping down, and when he rises, he has my bra, which he uses to tie my hands behind my back. I’m gushing arousal, so hot and ready for him. I’ve never been tied up before, but I now understand the appeal. The sense of being at his mercy amplifies everything-my desire, my need for him, the heat flooding my body.
He dips his fingers between my legs and strokes over my dewy petals. It feels so good to have his touch where I needed it so badly. I tip my pelvis back and moan.
“Even pleasure can be a torture, Natasha.” His voice is smoky velvet. He slides his fingers inside me at the same time his thumb traces down the cleft of my ass until it reaches my anus.
I moan and hump the bed. I’m already so wound up, and being bound and spread for him just makes the whole experience hotter.
“You think I won’t fuck this cute little ass?”
I undulate my hips to take his fingers deeper. I’m freaked out about anal, but not enough to not want it. I already know from what he did to me downstairs on the kitchen counter how incredible it feels. How much I liked anal play.
I’m feverish, rubbing my bare breasts over the bedcovers, arching and rolling to meet his fingers. He tortures me by removing his touch.
“Move and I’ll use the wooden spoon on your ass again,” he warns.
It takes my sex-addled brain a moment to even compute what he means, but when he leaves the room, I understand. I hold perfectly still as if my compliance with this order will bring me the satisfaction I so desperately need. I listen to his footsteps going swiftly down the stairs then back up.
To keep up the suspense, I don’t look when I hear him come back into the room. He pulls my buttcheek open with one hand and drizzles something between them.
Now I look.
It’s the olive oil. He brought the spoon, too, which actually would be a real incentive for me to cave. I hope he won’t use it on me. At least not too hard.
Dima kneels up behind me, parting my cheeks with the heels of his hands and lining his cock up. I automatically tense up, my anus fluttering at the contact. Dima makes a disapproving sound in his throat and applies a little pressure. “Now you take my cock, amerikanka.”
I moan my agreement. It’s so wrong but feels so right. Especially because it’s Dima. Or maybe only because it’s Dima.
For a moment, nothing happens. I’m resisting him, I guess, but I don’t realize it until he murmurs, his tone far softer, “Open for me, Natasha.”
I don’t know what that means, but I imagine opening for him, and my muscles relax. He breaches my back hole. There’s a burning sensation, but he goes slowly, feeding his length into me, centimeter by centimeter.
“It’s too big,” I protest.
Dima uncaps the olive oil and pours a little more between us. “Take me.” It’s a command, but he delivers it in a soft voice, with a touch of coaxing to it. I knew I was right that he’d never hurt me.
He may play at using sex as punishment, but I’m safe with him. I’m safe, and I can win this battle with my surrender.
I concentrate to relax until he’s fully seated, and then he starts moving slowly in and out.
I moan. “It’s good,” I admit. I tug at my bound wrists because the urge to put my fingers between my legs is overwhelming. My sex feels so empty. So needy. “Dima… please,” I start begging.
“Please what?” He lords over me with that authoritative tone now that I’m begging.
“I need… please…”
“Are you going to be a good girl?”
Fuck. No way. I’m not giving in. No chance.