Page 42 of Cruel Demands

“Yes.”

“I like it.” The words come out before she can stop them. I see the moment she realizes she has said them. I smile. She covers her eyes with one hand. “Forget I said that.”

“No.”

“Mikhail.”

“No,” I say again and touch her.

Her whole body jolts. My finger slides slowly through her slit, warm and wet, and I watch her face because I don’t trust myself to look anywhere else. Her mouth opens, but no sound comes out.

Her hand drops from her eyes and grips the sheet. Then my wrist. Then the sheet again, as if she can’t decide whether to pull me closer or push me away. I ease one finger inside her and hold it still there, pressing my thumb against her clit in a slow, gentle rhythm.

The low sound in her throat breaks into a gasp.

There. There is the sound I have been trying not to imagine.

I should not be the one to hear it. I should not be the one beside her in the dark, learning the way her body answers when her pride finally goes quiet. But I am.

I keep my touch slow enough to build as I begin moving my finger inside her. I do not push it as deep as I could. I let my thumb stay on her clit, pressing in a steady rhythm. I listen to every breath, every small movement, every place her body tightens or softens beneath my hand.

She tries to turn her face into the pillow. I catch her chin with my free hand. “No hiding.”

Her eyes are bright, her chest pink, her breathing thick. “I hate that rule.”

“You hate me too, but you obey,” I say into her ear and curl my finger more deeply inside her.

She makes a broken sound. My control slips one inch. I lower my mouth to her temple. Not her mouth. Not her throat. Not the places I want. Her temple.

Even there, she shivers. “Good girl,” I murmur before I can stop myself.

Taylor goes completely still. So do I. The words hang between us. I wait for anger. For a sharp joke. For the pillow thrown at my head after all. Instead, her body tightens around my finger as I move inside her.

Oh.

Her breath catches, and I move again, slower this time. “You like to be called good, kotik?” I murmur against her temple.

Her eyes flutter open. “Did you call me kitten?”

“Yes.”

“That is patronizing.”

“Yes.”

Her body tightens around me again. Her breath stutters. I change the rhythm of my hand, just slightly. Her hips lift again. This time I let them. The sound she makes is soft and shocked and so full of pleasure that my entire body tightens in answer. I am hard enough to hurt. I don’t move against her. I don’t take her hand and put it on me. I don’t make this about my hunger.

Taylor’s hand slides from the sheet to my wrist. For one terrible second, I think she means to stop me. Then her fingers press over mine, clumsy and urgent. “Like that,” she whispers.

The praise goes straight through me.

“Like this?” I say against her hair.

She nods quickly.

“Slovami.” Words.

“Yes. Yes, like that.”