Page 30 of Sexting the Pakhan
The faceless man in my head shifts. The shoulders get broader. The stillness changes shape. The imagined mouth becomes more severe, the imagined hands larger, more controlled, more dangerous. And suddenly it isn’t faceless anymore.
It’s Ruslan.
My eyes fly open. “No,” I whisper to absolutely no one.
My body does not agree.
Because now that it’s him, I can’t unsee it. Ruslan sitting on the edge of my bed in the dark, dress shirt open at the throat, dark hair slightly mussed from his own hand, those calm, unreadable eyes fixed on me while I straddle his lap.
Ruslan gripping my hips like he owns the exact place my body fits against his.
Ruslan looking up at me with that terrifyingly composed face while I sink onto his cock inch by inch, that control of his finally slipping just enough for me to see how much he wants it.
My breath catches so hard it hurts. “Oh my God.”
I turn onto my side and press my face into my pillow like that might somehow stop the thought, but it only makes the image sharper.
Because I know what his hands look like. Long fingers. Strong wrists. Clean nails. Expensive watch.
I know what his mouth looks like too. The hard line of it. The way it almost smiles instead of fully doing it. The way one corner shifts when he’s amused.
And now my brain, traitorous filthy thing that it is, gives me that mouth on my skin. On my throat. On the inside of my thigh. On my breast while his hand spreads me open and his voice, that deep impossible voice, tells me exactly how wet I am for him.
My thighs part before I even mean them to. I lie there staring into the dimness of my room, breathing hard all over again, and the thought gets worse. Hotter.
Because now it’s not just Ruslan, vaguely. It’s Ruslan specifically.
Ruslan in the library aisle, looking down at me while I say something stupid. Ruslan asking,Would you recommend this?Ruslan saying,Hypothetically, Miss Hart…
My cunt clenches so hard I make a humiliating little sound into the pillow.
No.
No, absolutely not.
I cannot be lying here freshly fucked up from sexting a stranger and imagining my gorgeous older patron taking me apart on his lap. That is too much. That is a crisis. That is enough bad decisions for one night.
But the thing about my body is that it doesn’t care what I think is too much. Now that it’s him in my head, everything feels even more vivid.
I know how tall he is, so when I imagine him towering over me beside the bed, one hand braced on the mattress and the other pushing my knees apart, my whole body goes molten with it. I know how controlled he is, so when I imagine that control finally thinning, his jaw tightening, his breathing roughening because I’m wet under him and he can feel it, I almost whimper. I know how his eyes look when they settle fully on me, and in my head they’re fixed between my thighs now, dark and intent and devastatingly calm while I squirm under the attention.
I squeeze my legs together again. It doesn’t help. It just reminds me how soaked I still am. How easy it would be to slip my hand back down. How easy it would be to pretend, just for one moreminute, that the stranger texting me and the man haunting my library Thursdays are somehow the same person.
The thought hits me so hard I go still.
My pulse jumps. My mouth goes dry.
That’s ridiculous. Completely ridiculous. They’re obviously not the same man.
One is a faceless stranger with filthy hands and a filthy mouth through text, and the other is Ruslan Karelin, who checks out books about wars and biographies and stands too close in library aisles until I lose basic motor function.
Still. The fantasy won’t let him go now.
In my head, Ruslan is on the bed behind me, pulling me back against his chest, one big hand flattening over my stomach while the other slides under my panties. He’s not hurried. That’s the thing that makes it unbearable. He never hurries. Even imagined, he’s patient. Thorough. The kind of man who would take his time driving me insane just to watch me come apart properly.
I can almost hear him.
Spread your legs.
