Page 29 of Arranged for the Russian Pakhan

Oh, Darya.

“I was going to give it to you nice and easy. Let my wife come, so you could appreciate how good this marriage could be for you if you only let it.” I sigh, as if I’m disappointed in her. “I can see now that that’s too generous for a person like you. You mistake my manners for complacency. That won’t do, will it?”

I don’t bother looking up to see her realize the mistake she’s made.

No. I bend over and, in one fluid movement, push two fingers deep inside Darya while sucking her clit into my mouth, letting my tongue play her nerve endings like a fucking violin, until she’s shaking, her toes curling in her heels. Until her hips try to buck, and my free hand holds her in place, refusing to let them. Until she’s swollen, and dripping, and so, so fucking close—

And then, I pull away.

The rhythm broken, I soothe her furious cry with a sweet lap of my tongue across her cleft. When I take that, too, away from her, she dares to whine at the loss.

“Can’t make up your fucking mind, can you, wife?”

She fumes. She doesn’t answer.

With another laugh, I start all over again—with a different rhythm to my licks. The fingers inside of her curl, hooked towards her pelvis. Her walls clamp around them so tightly, it’s a fight to add the third. A worthwhile fucking battle.

Dragging her to the edge a second time is that much easier. The more she gets lost in what makes her feel good, the easier it is to use it against her. The third time, her feet twitch in her shoes. I pause to lick at the sweat behind her knees and peel those shoes away, one at a time.

By the fourth time I leave her hanging from the edge I won’t let her drop from, she’s grown suspiciously quiet.

“You’re dripping, Darya. You need this so fucking badly, don’t you?” She won’t answer me. I slap her thigh hard. “Don’t you?”

Her cry is muffled. I suspect she’s biting her lip to hold her sounds in, sealing them away from me.

And that isn’t all.

When I look up, it’s to find her hands in white-knuckled fists, nails dug into her palms. For control, I guess. The sight of it makes me want to bust in my fucking pants. It takes little force to unravel those fists—what, with how she fucking wrecks me? I press my lips to the crescent moons cut into her skin. A prelude to other kisses, I drag up the notches of her spine, charting my path to the sweat-damp crook of her neck.

“Look at yourself, Darya.” As cruel as I’d been to the bottoms, it’s twice as gingerly that I free her wrists. “I don’t need to tie you up to make you lose control.”

Still, “My control—is mine,” she pants.

Her indomitability is magnificent. She’s not a woman who can be broken. Though it’s sure fucking something to let her believe that’s what I’m trying for. Fun, I think, might be the word for it. I admire the fight in her, so unlike any other person I’ve ever known. Fight for the sheer principle of the thing. Even if those principles are what impede the orgasm her body is undoubtedly begging her for.

The ribbon flutters to the ground.

“If you give it to me,” I breathe, each word a vow I’m still fully dressed to make, “I’ll make it worth your while. Don’t you want that?”

“H-how?” She glares at the hitch in her breath.

“Show me the rest of that body, first.”

The quick work she makes of the row of hooks holding the top together is worthy of the awe she inspires. That awe pales in comparison to when she unveils herself to me. Every last inch of her creamy skin, blotched all over in rosy Rorschach blots.

I swallow hard. It takes effort to get words out, huskily, “Can you decide between my fingers or my cock?”

She’s never been more stubborn than in this moment, refusing to let her gaze drop. I can tell she wants to look away. She still fucking doesn’t. Oh no, she looks me right in the eye and orders, “Make me cum around your cock, Anton.”

I give her an approving nod that earns me a scowl. “Get it out and soak it for me.”

For all the malice in the look she shoots me, the way she rips at my belt buckle and zipper, then watches my cock bob out for her, is still the truest thing about her. I’m not about to voice it—but I’m fucking grateful she doesn’t take the opportunity to torment me. If she’d dropped to her knees, it would have obliterated every plan I had for her body. I would shoot my load down her throat in a matter of minutes, with no care for whether she fucking finishes first or not.

This is what she does to me.

This is what she fucking reduces me to—this primitive, hunger-driven savage who paws at her tits without any control. Who grips her at the waist and whips her around, spitting into my palm to soak my fucking cock myself, just to notch the tip at her entrance as soon as goddamn possible.

My vision is a haze of spots as her wet heat envelopes me. Her legs vibrate against my thighs, and I’m still the one who can’t get a fucking grip. She’s heaven.