I ask, flicking his nipple with my tongue.
“Fuck me.” He shouts it so loud I’m glad we have five floors to ourselves.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to tease you some more—?”
He’s panting, sweat curling down his brow. His eyes are dark, angry. “Fuck me, Penelope.”
I get some twisted thrill out of making him break character. I’m not one for the rules. I don’t get off on ritual—my life is ritual. I just get off on making him break his own rules.
I grab a condom from the nightstand and scoot back, clutching him. I unroll it slowly, much to his frustration, and then I slide down on him with the help of gravity. It doesn’t take long. He’s so worked up I only have to roll my hips a few times before he’s full-steaming towards the end. I’m not feeling it like he is. Sure, I’m wet. He’s hitting a spot inside me I can’t reach on my own. But this isn’t what gets me off. I’m not going to come with him here like this.
“ Blin … yebat’… blin… bog chertovski blin…”
I know he’s about to blow. He’s crossed over into Russian so thick he doesn’t know he’s not in Siberia anymore. I squeeze my inner muscles, rocking harder, and he locks up. He shouts more curses in Russian before he sags against the bed— spent .
Once I’ve calmed my heart, I release his ankles, caressing the bruised skin. I move to his hands, kissing the welts that ring his wrists.
He frames my face with his hands, kissing me deeply and whispering, “ spasibo .” Thanks.
“You’re welcome.” I sigh, resting my head on his chest. “I don’t have anything to wear to this shindig.”
He nudges me and points to the closet. We both climb off the bed and I eye him speculatively before stepping to the closet to inspect what’s inside.
A dress—dark blue, fitted bodice of silver beads woven into layers of silk that cascades down to just below my knees. I stare at the thing. Amazed.
“It’s your size,” he says, brushing the hair from my shoulder and planting a kiss on my skin.
“How do you do that?”
“We all have our talents, Penelope. You are good at torture and I,” he says with a shrug, “I am good at spoiling you.”
He slaps my ass and heads into the bathroom. I run my fingers over the intricate beads. The man has me at casual, kinky sex. He really doesn’t have to try so hard to win me over.
The party is in full swing when we stroll through the door. I’m a tad on edge, my eyes constantly scanning the room as I try to find my balance. I don’t have pockets in this dress so I was forced to leave my burner phone back at the hotel. Marko assured me that he has his phone if I need to use one. I shouldn’t need one. This is just a simple dignitary function. Worrying over not having a phone is begging for trouble.
Even so I have a bad feeling .
Marko is the picture of ease and confidence. He’s flirting with the female bartender while, smiling at a guy at the end of the bar. He bounces back from play easily. The man is in a constant state of horny and doing something about it. Of course he bounces back easily.
He hands me a flute of champagne when he returns to my side.
“I don’t drink on the job.”
“You’re not working tonight,” he argues.
The orders I received from my CO say differently, but Marko gives me a smile that disarms me. No one is going to try to kill him. Why would someone try to kill him ?
“You specifically asked for me, didn’t you?” I guess.
“Guilty, but I’ve missed you. So I’m forgiven, da ?”
I don’t respond. I don’t have to. I met Marko five years ago. And though I would never call us an item, or a couple, I would say I’ve trusted him with some of the darkest parts of my soul. And if the past four hours in his hotel room proves anything, he trusts me, too.
He makes his way across the room, talking to fellow dignitaries and occasionally putting his arm around me. He whispers things in my ear, words that are meant to
“Fuck me.” He shouts it so loud I’m glad we have five floors to ourselves.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to tease you some more—?”
He’s panting, sweat curling down his brow. His eyes are dark, angry. “Fuck me, Penelope.”
I get some twisted thrill out of making him break character. I’m not one for the rules. I don’t get off on ritual—my life is ritual. I just get off on making him break his own rules.
I grab a condom from the nightstand and scoot back, clutching him. I unroll it slowly, much to his frustration, and then I slide down on him with the help of gravity. It doesn’t take long. He’s so worked up I only have to roll my hips a few times before he’s full-steaming towards the end. I’m not feeling it like he is. Sure, I’m wet. He’s hitting a spot inside me I can’t reach on my own. But this isn’t what gets me off. I’m not going to come with him here like this.
“ Blin … yebat’… blin… bog chertovski blin…”
I know he’s about to blow. He’s crossed over into Russian so thick he doesn’t know he’s not in Siberia anymore. I squeeze my inner muscles, rocking harder, and he locks up. He shouts more curses in Russian before he sags against the bed— spent .
Once I’ve calmed my heart, I release his ankles, caressing the bruised skin. I move to his hands, kissing the welts that ring his wrists.
He frames my face with his hands, kissing me deeply and whispering, “ spasibo .” Thanks.
“You’re welcome.” I sigh, resting my head on his chest. “I don’t have anything to wear to this shindig.”
He nudges me and points to the closet. We both climb off the bed and I eye him speculatively before stepping to the closet to inspect what’s inside.
A dress—dark blue, fitted bodice of silver beads woven into layers of silk that cascades down to just below my knees. I stare at the thing. Amazed.
“It’s your size,” he says, brushing the hair from my shoulder and planting a kiss on my skin.
“How do you do that?”
“We all have our talents, Penelope. You are good at torture and I,” he says with a shrug, “I am good at spoiling you.”
He slaps my ass and heads into the bathroom. I run my fingers over the intricate beads. The man has me at casual, kinky sex. He really doesn’t have to try so hard to win me over.
The party is in full swing when we stroll through the door. I’m a tad on edge, my eyes constantly scanning the room as I try to find my balance. I don’t have pockets in this dress so I was forced to leave my burner phone back at the hotel. Marko assured me that he has his phone if I need to use one. I shouldn’t need one. This is just a simple dignitary function. Worrying over not having a phone is begging for trouble.
Even so I have a bad feeling .
Marko is the picture of ease and confidence. He’s flirting with the female bartender while, smiling at a guy at the end of the bar. He bounces back from play easily. The man is in a constant state of horny and doing something about it. Of course he bounces back easily.
He hands me a flute of champagne when he returns to my side.
“I don’t drink on the job.”
“You’re not working tonight,” he argues.
The orders I received from my CO say differently, but Marko gives me a smile that disarms me. No one is going to try to kill him. Why would someone try to kill him ?
“You specifically asked for me, didn’t you?” I guess.
“Guilty, but I’ve missed you. So I’m forgiven, da ?”
I don’t respond. I don’t have to. I met Marko five years ago. And though I would never call us an item, or a couple, I would say I’ve trusted him with some of the darkest parts of my soul. And if the past four hours in his hotel room proves anything, he trusts me, too.
He makes his way across the room, talking to fellow dignitaries and occasionally putting his arm around me. He whispers things in my ear, words that are meant to
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