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Stas choked. “Yuriy.”

“Oh, come on.” I admired the swirl pattern. “It’s thematic. Festive. Family-friendly—okay, maybe not that last one. But imagine how good it’ll feel when you take both of us.”

“I—you—that’s⁠—”

“Shh.” I stroked a hand through his hair. “It gets better.”

I picked up the next box, a slimmer one wrapped in shimmering gold. Paper fell away, and I unfurled the contents with a flourish: a tiny, indecently short, red velvet mini skirt trimmed in white fur and a matching tube top.

“What the actual fuck! Yuriy, no.”

“Yuriy, yes.” I laid the skirt across the curve of his ass, and my dick twitched. “Picture it. My big, terrifying pakhan in a skirt so short it’s basically a belt. Your ass will look so fucking hot in it.”

“I don’t—I can’t⁠—”

I leaned down, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “Do you trust me?”

He didn’t hesitate. Not even a breath. “Of course.”

A warm, bright ache flickered in my chest.

“Then don’t think.” I drew my fingers down his spine slowly. He arched beautifully. “Just feel. If you don’t like it, we stop. But I’d really love if you wore these for me, Stanislav. I’m rock hard just thinking about it.” I slipped my fingers under the hem of the tiny skirt, finding his hole and teasing him there.

Stas moaned, spreading his legs. “You—nobody can know.”

“As if I would ever want to share this side of you with anyone else.” I dragged my finger down the curve of his hip. “I get jealous just thinking about anyone else seeing your ass like this.”

A quiet breath shuddered out of him.

Good.

“Now.” I lifted the skirt between two fingers. “Let’s get my present wrapped properly.”

He buried his face in the pillow. “Yuriy⁠—”

“Lift your hips.” I nudged him gently. “Come on, Stas. Help me out.”

He lifted. Hesitant but obedient. The kind of obedience that made my chest feel too tight and my dick painfully hard.

I guided the skirt up his thighs, the red velvet dragging over his skin, soft as a whisper. God, he looked good like this, helpless, flushed, trusting me with every inch of him when he could absolutely snap my neck if he wanted to.

“Higher.” I patted his hip.

He lifted his pelvis again, giving me enough room to pull the skirt over the perfect swell of his ass. The bow I’d stuck there wiggled as the fabric slid beneath it, and the sight almost made me groan.

“There.” I smoothed the soft hem against the bottom curve of his cheeks. “Fits like it was made for you.”

He made a noise—somewhere between mortification and arousal—and I took that as encouragement.

“Now the top,” I said.

“Must we?”

“It’s an outfit. It’ll be incomplete without the top.”

I grabbed the matching red velvet bandeau and briefly admired how tiny it looked compared to the breadth of his back.

“This won’t fit,” he muttered into the pillow.