Page 40 of Arranged for the Russian Pakhan

Still, Anton just sits there, staring at me. I have to spell this out for him? Fine. “Take off your pants. I’ve been sent by my sister to calculate something.”

“My pants?”

“Your cock,” I correct. “Its size. Typically, I could eyeball it; I have a good eye for spatial awareness. I rarely miscalculate. But you were hitting it from behind last time, so.”

I’ll admit, it’s highly satisfying watching a man of this stature choke on nothing but air. “I beg your pardon?” Anton wheezes.

“So, beg.” I nod and work my way through the buttons of my blazer until I can shuck it from my shoulders. Left in nothing but a lacy, cherry red bra, I summon him with a crook of my finger and the universal gesture for come hither.

“Darya.” His face is turning red. So is his chest. I know, because his button-down from earlier today is hanging open in invitation. “You’re drunk.”

“Thank you, Señor Sourpuss. Tequila also makes me horny. So, are you going to do something about it—” My hands reach behind myself, popping open the clasp to my bra in a single, fluid movement. “—or are you going to watch me touch myself?”

His face looks genuinely torn. Tormented, even—the way a child is in a candy store, told to choose one option. I grin at his distress. It’s endearing enough that I find my mouth assuring, “It isn’t a trick.”

“Did you just call me Señor... Sourpuss?” he intones, clearly damned with the wrong priorities.

I’m done waiting. I get on the bed myself, ripping the hard-backed book in his hands and flinging it to the side. It lands somewhere with a thunk. Somehow, I don’t think Anton minds. The way his hands grip my thighs is anything but admonishing.

Good, I think. His touch is as desperate as I feel, the cool air raking at my bared, sensitive flesh. My body is alight with awareness. Every inch is coated in gooseflesh, as if the bumps rise to elicit his attention.

It works. His lips brush my clavicle, then drag all the way down to the crook of my elbow. My breast knocks against his warm cheek. The teasing, grazing contact makes my nipples tighten.

These trousers are too snug to straddle his lap. His thighs are massive. But one of them will do, my body decides. One of them is all I need, a saddle for me to slot myself onto and ride. I’m so wet. God. I know I am; I can feel how damp my panties are. What will he say if I leave a damp spot on his thigh, through two layers?

“Tell me the things you’re thinking,” I whine.

His sigh fans over my chest, and I all but drag his mouth to the hard bud at my breast with a fistful of his curls. His groan vibrates around it, seeping into my skin. He floods my system with his own desire—as if my body has any room to spare.

“I’m thinking,” he laps words against my skin, “that you’re so fucking beautiful, it hurts to look at you sometimes.”

The words are said so mindlessly; they’re somehow all the more raw for it. I think Nadya was wrong. There is a piece of me missing, and it’s made me a sink with an open drain. Anton gifts me a little droplet of praise, and nothing less than a deluge will do for me. “More,” I insist, tugging at golden strands. “Up.”

In two words, he manages to understand me. His face presses against my sternum, mouthing at the valley between my breasts, like he can’t get enough either, as he resituates us to the writing desk in the corner of the room. It’s on top of it that he deposits me.

I blink up at him, palming his stiff cock through his trousers. “Do you have some kind of a furniture kink I should know about?” I ask, curious. I could make it work, probably.

“I’m getting some water in you,” he says. His voice is colored by humor, however wry the brand. That’s when I notice his hands aren’t on me anymore. I’m so feverish, I didn’t realize his hands were behind me, doing something.

I hear a slosh of water and smack his chest. My palm hits the muscled pec with a tantalizing smack of flesh against flesh. It makes my mouth water.

“Can you quit with the Prince Charming routine? Not only is it annoying, but it’s also unnecessary. I’m not some damsel in distress. I’m your equal, if not your outright superior.” The urge to stomp my foot is undeniable. My legs are too busy being wrapped around his waist, so I kick at the back of his thigh instead. “You owe me a birthday present.”

“Do you have an insulting me kink?” he counters, eyes dark.

Well… “Depends on how well you take it,” I answer honestly, my mouth too unfettered and my inhibitions lost to the night.

Whatever the look on my face, it coerces his hands back onto my body. His palms at my waist, tapering up my waist to palm at my breasts. His hands devour me wherever they land. He’s so big, in every way.

“I want you in my mouth,” I exhale, pressing a fluttering kiss to his brow. “I want you to let me have you, and take you, and use you however I want. Can you do that for me, Anton? Please?”

His exhale seems to rattle through him. His muscles bunch with his restraint. “You’re killing me,” he says in a pained rasp.

It isn’t a no. If anything, it’s the opposite. Especially when he takes a step back, and his shaking hands make stunningly quick work of his clothing. In record time, he’s shoved the double bands at his waist down, and his cock springs free—thick, and flushed, and leaking. The sight of it alone makes heat pool between my hips.

My hands are slower to rid myself of my bottoms, but they find his choice inspired. In one fell swoop, I shove every stitch of clothing off my body. Yet, when I reach for the ankle strap, he makes a noise of dissent deep in his throat.

“Leave them on.”