Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 64993 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 325(@200wpm)___ 260(@250wpm)___ 217(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64993 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 325(@200wpm)___ 260(@250wpm)___ 217(@300wpm)
His cock surges in my fist, the purpled head already weeping with pre-cum. He wants to put it in my mouth. He wraps a fist around my messy bun, but when I resist him guiding my mouth forward, he yields. He’s not the kind of guy to force a woman. I thought so, but it’s still a relief to be sure.
“Say it,” I demand. I flick the tip of my tongue over his slit, tasting the drop of his essence.
His breath rasps in through flared nostrils. His expression is stony, his eyes hard, but he mutters almost inaudibly, “You’re right, amerikanka. There's no side of you I don't like.”
Victory surges through me as powerful and pleasing as an orgasm. Maybe I do orgasm—I don’t know. All I know is I engulf his cock with my mouth and take him as deep as I can.
He groans, his fingers tightening in my hair. This time when he tries to drive, I let him, aroused as hell by his desperation, his dominance. He pulls me forward and back over his cock and I suck on the outstrokes, my tongue swirling along the underside, caressing him.
“Blyad’,” he curses in Russian.
I slide my hands up his muscular thighs, but when I move to cup his balls, he catches my wrist. “Nyet,” he says harshly. “Put them behind your back. This is punishment.”
As if touching him with my hands would be a reward. But I love the order because when I hold my hands behind my back, I feel like his naughty little sex slave, and it hurtles me to the brink of my own orgasm.
I know I have a submissive personality, but I thought it came from immigrating to a new country as a child, from trying hard to fit in. Until now, I had no idea it was a sexual kink. I didn’t know how wet I’d get being bossed around by the guy whose dick is in my mouth.
I suck his manhood like my life depends on it, pretending that it does because this idea of a sex act as punishment turns me way on.
He tightens his grip on my hair, holds my head still, and pumps in and out of my mouth. “Natasha,” he rasps brokenly, giving himself away. Not that he didn’t already.
There's no side of you I don't like.
Now that he’s shown me his cards, he can’t hurt me anymore. He can be a grumpy asshole all he wants, but I know the truth. He’s into me. Way into me.
Now I just need to figure out why he’s holding back.
“Da...da…fuck.” Dima shudders, his balls contracting. “Coming,” he warns, releasing his hold on my head.
I don’t stop sucking. In fact, I suck harder, glorying in the hot spurt of his cum in my throat, swallowing his essence down with pride.
“Jesus.” He glares at me. “Get up.” It’s a harsh command, but it has no effect on me now.
He catches my elbow and hauls me to my feet. I don’t know what I expect—he’s not gentle, and he seems angry, but he puts both hands on my waist and lifts me to sit on the granite countertop of the L-shaped island.
My legs tremble, my breath heaves in and out of my chest. Dima picks up my knees, lifting and separating them until my feet stand on the cool counter, and I have to brace with my hands behind me.
His mouth is between my legs in milliseconds, and he’s not slow or nuanced. It’s more like an attack. His tongue lashes me open, drags through my juices. His lips find my clit, and he works it between them until he can suction his mouth over and suck.
I scream.
Not a ladylike cry. A full-on scream of shocked pleasure. I wriggle under the intensity of it, push at Dima’s head, try to squeeze my legs closed.
Dima is unfazed. He’s like a starved man, and I’m the main course. His fingers dig into my thighs as he holds my knees wide and goes to town on me. I orgasm within sixty seconds, but he doesn’t let up. That’s when he slides a thumb inside me and starts finger-fucking me, fast and hard. The heel of his index finger rubs over my clit with every plunge as he lifts his head and sweeps a gaze across the kitchen counter.
He leans over to grab something behind me. I turn, but then I’m lost, lying flat on my back, too stimulated to be able to hold my torso upright any longer. I prop myself on my elbows to see what Dima grabbed: a bottle of olive oil. He unscrews the cap with one hand, never stopping with the other hand, except to change to his index and middle finger, which he uses to stroke my inner front wall.
I shriek again when he finds my G-spot. “Dima!”