Page 61 of Sexting the Pakhan

9

RUSLAN

Her back hits the mattress,and for half a second I stop above her.

Not because I don’t want her.

Because I want her too much.

She’s spread beneath me in my shirt, bare legs around my waist, hair loose over my sheets, mouth swollen from kissing me. Her cheeks are flushed, her breasts rising hard under black cotton, and the look on her face is not fear anymore.

It’s want.

Nervous, yes. Angry, still.

But want.

I can work with anger. I understand anger.

This woman has been trembling in my house for days, and now she’s looking up at me like I’m the only thing in the room she wants to touch. It almost breaks what little sense I have left.

“Last chance,” I say.

She grips my shirt in both fists. “If you ask me one more time, I’m going to scream.”

“That’s not a no.”

“No,” she says, eyes flashing. “It isn’t.”

I kiss her again.

She opens for me immediately, and the last of my restraint tears thin. Her legs tighten around my hips, pulling me down until my cock grinds against her through my trousers. She gasps into my mouth, then does it again herself, rolling her hips up with an awkward, desperate little movement that makes me nearly lose my mind.

I catch her wrists and pin them above her head.

She goes still for one breath. Then her whole body softens under mine.

Fuck.

“You like that,” I say.

Her throat works. “Maybe.”

“Liar.”

Her eyes burn into mine, embarrassed and defiant at once. “You’re very annoying.”

“And you’re wet.”

Her mouth falls open.

I don’t give her time to answer. I drag my free hand down her body, over the soft curve of her breast, her waist, her stomach,then under the hem of my shirt. She jerks when my fingers find the damp heat between her thighs through her panties.

Soaked.

I press the heel of my hand against her pussy and feel her arch hard beneath me.

“Ruslan.”