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My whole body locks up.

“You what?”

“You heard me.” He bites the soft part of my hip, not gentle, and I yelp. “I’m not wearing a condom, Dylan. I’m not pulling out. I’m coming in this pussy every single time. You understand?”

There’s no thinking left in this room. There’s just me, flat on my back with my wrists pinned and my heart beating in my ears, and a forty-two-year-old Russian gangster telling me he’s gonna breed me like he’s making me a promise.

And I’m so wet it’s embarrassing.

“I’m not on birth control,” I hear myself say.

He lifts his head and looks up at me from between my thighs. His eyes are almost black.

“Good.”

He yanks my skirt and panties down my legs in one pull and throws them somewhere. Then he spreads my thighs wide with both hands and puts his mouth on me.

Oh, God. Oh, God.

I’ve touched myself. Obviously. I’m twenty-two, not dead. I thought I knew what it felt like. I didn’t know nothing. His tongue drags through me flat and slow from bottom to top, his beard scratching my thighs, and he groans into my pussy like a starving man. Then he wraps his lips around my clit and sucks, and my hips come off the bed, and his arm bands across my belly and slams them back down.

“Stay still.”

“I can’t…”

“You will.”

I don’t. I can’t. I’m grabbing at the sheets, at his hair, at nothing. He eats me like it’s his job, like he got all night, and my thighs are shaking around his ears and I’m making noises I didn’t know a person could make. When he pushes one thick finger inside me, it burns a little, a tight stretch, and he cusses against my clit.

“Fuck, you’re tight.” He pumps it slow. Curls it. “You feel that? That’s mine.”

“Yes… Yes… Sasha, I’m finna…”

“Do it. Come on my face.”

I do. It tears through me so hard my back bows off the mattress, my thighs clamp his head, and I scream. Not cute. Loud and cracked and ugly, the kind the people in the next suite definitely heard. He doesn’t stop. He keeps sucking my clit through it until I’m crying and shoving at his head ‘cause it’s too much, it’s too much.

He finally sits back on his heels. His beard’s wet. He wipes his mouth with the back of his tattooed hand and looks at me like he wants to do it all over again.

Then he unbuckles his belt.

I watch him undress with my chest heaving. The shirt first. His chest is wide and covered in tattoos, stars on his shoulders, a church across his ribs, a hundred other things with dark hair through all of it, and a thick, puckered scar across his side like somebody tried to open him up. Then the slacks. Then the boxer briefs.

Oh.

Oh, no.

“Sasha.” I’m scooting back up the bed on my elbows. “Sasha, that is not gonna fit.”

He wraps his fist around his cock and strokes it once, slow, root to tip. Long and thick and so hard it’s curving up toward his stomach, the head dark and already wet, his big hand barely closing around it.

“It’s gonna fit.”

“Have you seen it?”

That gets a real laugh out of him. Short and rough. He puts a knee on the bed and crawls up over me, and his huge body blocks out the light and everything else, and I’m caged under him. His cock drags along the inside of my thigh, heavy and hot.

“Look at me.”