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My whole body jerks like I’ve been electrocuted, hips lifting off the bed, a raw scream tearing from my throat as wave after wave crashes through me. It feels like something else has taken over, like my body isn’t mine anymore, just pure sensation and surrender.
When I finally collapse back, trembling, gasping, he lifts his head. His chin glistens. His shirt has a dark, wet patch spreading across the chest. Those eyes are on me again, admiration, hunger, something almost reverent.
“Beautiful,” he says quietly.
I stare at the evidence of what I just did, my arousal darkening his expensive shirt, and mortification floods in hot and fast.
“Oh God, I’m sorry—I’ve never—I didn’t mean to—”
His hand comes down in a sharp, stinging slap right against my oversensitive pussy.
I jerk hard, a shocked yelp escaping me, fresh heat blooming where he struck.
“Don’t,” he growls, voice low and commanding. “Don’t you ever apologize for coming like that. Not to me. Not for anything your body gives me.”
His palm soothes the sting now, gentle circles over the throbbing flesh.
I’m still shaking. Still reeling.
But the embarrassment melts away under his touch, under the way he’s looking at me, like I’m a miracle he just discovered.
Who is this man? And what the hell has he done to my body in less than an hour?
He doesn’t pull away. His fingers are still buried inside me, slick and slow, when he murmurs against my thigh, “You didn’t count.”
I blink through the haze, lungs still burning. “Two,” I manage, voice wrecked.
A low, satisfied hum rumbles from his chest. Then he’s rising, he stands at the edge of the bed, eyes never leaving mine, and starts unbuttoning his shirt.
I push myself up onto my elbows, suddenly desperate to watch.
The fabric parts inch by inch, revealing the broad expanse of his chest. God. Intricate tattoos swirl across his skin, dark lines and shadows curling over his pecs, dipping down his ribs, wrapping around muscle like they were carved there.
His shoulders are wide, arms thick with corded muscle, veins standing out along his forearms. When the shirt finally slides off and hits the floor, I can’t look away. Eight. He has an actual eight-pack. Not the vague suggestion most guys call abs, this is carved, defined, the kind of body that only comes from sleeping at the gym or fighting for your life. Maybe both.
He hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his trousers and shoves them down along with his briefs in one smooth motion.
My mouth goes dry.
His cock springs free, heavy, thick, long enough that my thighs clench on instinct. The head is flushed dark, already glistening. I stare, shameless, until his rough voice cuts through the fog.
“Done staring?”
Heat floods my face. I’ve been caught like a teenager gawking at her first nude. “You… you have a beautiful body,” I blurt, then immediately want to disappear.
He smirks, a wicked lift at the corner of his mouth. “Likewise, plamya.”
He reaches for the nightstand, pulls out a condom, rips the packet with his teeth, and rolls it on with practiced efficiency. Then he’s climbing onto the bed, knees sinking into the mattress, covering my body with his.
He holds his weight on his forearms, caging me without crushing me, and lowers his head.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he says, voice low and reverent. He kisses my collarbone first, soft, open-mouthed presses that trail lower.
“These tits—” He cups one, thumb brushing over the nipple until it pebbles hard, then takes it into his mouth, sucking slow and deep. I arch into him with a gasp.
He moves to the other, lavishing the same attention, then kisses down my sternum, my ribs, the soft curve of my stomach. Every inch he touches, he praises, filthy compliments that make me tremble. “Perfect skin. So soft. Look at you, baby. All mine tonight.”
He nudges forward, the blunt head of his cock sliding through my folds, teasing my entrance without pushing in. Slow, deliberate drags that coat him in my wetness. I whimper, hips lifting, chasing.
