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“Arsen…”
“I’m here to help, remember?” As he speaks, he pulls my ass against his crotch, grinding our bodies together slowly.
“How is this helping?”
“Just breathe, Laila.Relax. Forget I’m here.”
As if I could ever do that.I almost lose my balance in a burst of laughter. Ironically, it does relax me. “How do I look now?”
“Fucking incredible.”
With a laugh, I collapse and roll out of the position. “Just so you know, you’re not helping in the slightest.”
“I’d say I’m doing wonders. Now, what’s next?”
“I don’t think this is?—”
He points at the mat and possession roars to life in his eyes. His voice drops, his posture straightens, and it’s like he grows another six inches taller as he snarls, “Get on your hands and knees and show me what’s next,roza.”
Well, okay then. At your service.
Clamping down on the inside of my cheek to keep a fluttery little gasp from escaping into the world where it will no doubt cause all sorts of trouble, I lie down and assume Bridge pose. Shoulders and the soles of my feet to the mat while I arch my back to send my hips high toward the ceiling.
I’m shaking, not with the effort of the pose, but with a nervous anticipation as Arsen circles around me once again. I feel like a steak tossed into a lion’s cage—and to be clear, I mean that in the best way possible. The pain in my hip is long since forgotten.
Arsen kneels in front of me. One hand grips my hip as he slides between my legs. His eyes burn a path up my body, and I can feel the heat of him simmering through his clothes. He is achingly close to exactly where I want him.
Suddenly, I’m not as interested in the test as I am in the man kneeling in front of me. I start to slump out of the pose so I can reach for him, but he catches me by the ankle.
“Mrs. Adamov,” Arsen chastises, “you have a lot of practicing to do.”
“I’m looking to try a few different partner positions. I could really use your help.”
He only shakes his head. “Show me what’s next.”
I gulp. Slowly, I spin belly-down. My arms go long and lithe, reaching out in front of me, as I rock back on my heels into Child’s pose. By the time I settle in and sigh with the relief of the stretch, my ass is mere inches from his hand.
When I feel his fingers ghosting along my waistband, that sigh gets caught in my throat. But I don’t say anything; that would only break the spell.
Instead, as he slowly, slowly,sofuckingslowlypeels my yoga pants down the curve of my waist, I don’t speak a single word. I don’t breathe. I don’t move. I just hold the pose as he bares me.
It’s only when I can feel the cool air of the room wafting between my thighs that I lick my lips and try to say something.
“Ar—”
But I only get a single syllable out before he reaches up and clamps a hand over my mouth.
“Hush,” he growls in that same commanding voice he used to boss me back down to the mat. “Let me tell you what’s going to happen, Laila.” A single fingertip strokes up and down the outer boundary of my wetness. I shudder, but he plasters his weight along my spine to keep me right where I am. “I’m going to make you come. You’re going to moan into my hand and see stars, but you’re going to stay right where you are. If you’re a good girl, you get my fingers. If you’re averygood girl, you get my tongue. And when I’m finished making you gush all over me, I’m going to carry you upstairs, rinse you off, and pull you back into bed with me. And you’re going to sleep the best you’ve ever slept. Do you understand? Nod if you do.”
I nod.
And if there’s one thing you can say for certain about Arsen Adamov, it’s this:
He is a man of his word.
“We’re going to be late,” I mutter for the millionth time since we left the house half an hour ago.
“We’re not going to be late.”
