Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 66833 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 334(@200wpm)___ 267(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66833 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 334(@200wpm)___ 267(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
Maybe the reason he always scared me was not his family’s reputation or the darkness I could sense in him, but the way everything about him drew me in from the moment we met, back when I was just barely fourteen… too young to handle that overwhelming pull without losing myself to it.
Maybe I won’t be able to handle it even now, but I’m willing to try.
When I’m naked, I reach for his clothes. He lets me push up his T-shirt, exposing his flat, ridged stomach, but he has to be the one to pull the shirt off over his head since I can’t reach that high. What I can do is lean in and tongue his small, masculine nipple as soon as his hard-muscled, tattooed chest is bared. Simultaneously, I work on his belt buckle, purposefully rubbing my hand over the hard, massive bulge in his jeans in the process.
At the first touch of my tongue, his breath catches, a low groan rumbling in his throat as he grips my head to keep my mouth pressed against his chest. Encouraged, I graze his nipple with my teeth and then suck on it, and he shudders all over, his hips jerking violently to push his jean-clad erection harder against my hand as he swears explosively, uttering Russian curses so filthy that my face burns and liquid heat streaks down my body.
Seeking more of that response, I switch my attention to his other nipple, but he’s not having it. Instead, he guides my head lower, to where I’ve just managed to unzip him.
“Suck it,” he orders in a raspy voice, pulling out his cock with one hand while holding my head with the other, and I gladly fall to my knees, wrapping my lips around the thick, smooth column.
Unlike the time he fucked my mouth back on the yacht, he’s gentle. Careful. Even as the vibrating tension of his muscles betrays his raw desperation, he makes sure not to press on the still-healing scars on my head or to otherwise cause me any discomfort. He lets me set the pace, to lick and stroke and suck him as I wish, and I revel in the freedom of it, in my ability to please him, to drive him as mad as he drives me. Every groan I elicit, every involuntary thrust of his hips, is a small victory, though I no longer know in which war.
All I know is that he’s magnificent like this, a stunning male animal lost in lust, his powerful muscles bunching and quivering from the effort of restraining himself, his throat corded as he throws his head back with a stifled groan and pours his cum down my throat.
I swallow it all and lick him clean, a part of me disappointed it’s over so quickly. Except it’s not. Even after his orgasm, he’s barely softened, and by the time I’m done cleaning him off, his cock is fully rigid again, thick and massive, ready for more.
Ready for me.
Always ready for me.
“Come here,” he says hoarsely, pulling me to my feet, and what follows is the closest we’ve ever gotten to making love. He explores and worships every part of my body, finding erogenous areas I didn’t even know I possessed—like the backs of my knees and the undersides of my breasts. I come twice before he enters me, and when he does, he fucks me so tenderly it makes me want to weep. And I come again. And again. Until I’m utterly wrung out yet unwilling to close my eyes for fear that this is just a dream, that if I fall asleep and wake up, we’ll be back to what we were instead of… what we are becoming.
So I stay awake even as the light fades outside, day transitioning smoothly into night. Lying on my side, I trace circles on his chest, studying his intricate dragon tattoos in the dim light of the bedside lamp he’s flipped on, and we still don’t speak. Not really. Nothing beyond a few sex words and my reassurances that I’m okay, that I’m still not too tired… though I definitely am.
Finally, I break the silence. “So why the dragons?”
I asked him this on the yacht, and he brushed me off with some bullshit answer. I wait to see if he’ll do that again, but he sighs and says, “It’s stupid. Just a children’s fairy tale I used to like.”
I lift my head off the pillow to look at him. “What kind of fairy tale?”
He’s staring at the ceiling, not meeting my gaze. “A generic one. Nothing special, really. My mother used to read it to me when I was little, and after she was gone, I… read it to myself for a bit.”
His mother. My chest squeezes. “What was it about?”
He lets out a huff of air. “Dragons, what else? And a prince and a princess. Like I said, generic and unimaginative. I don’t even remember the title of that story.”