Page 62 of Sexting the Pakhan

There’s nothing careful in her voice now. Nothing polite. Just need.

I bend and bite the side of her throat, not hard enough to hurt, hard enough to make her remember it tomorrow. Her hips lift into my hand.

“That’s it,” I murmur against her skin. “Show me.”

She whimpers, then seems to hate herself for it, because she turns her face into the pillow.

I release her wrists and take her jaw in my hand, turning her back to me. “No hiding.”

Her lashes flutter. “I’m not hiding.”

“You are.”

“I don’t know what I’m doing.”

I still.

She feels it immediately. Her hands come to my chest, not pushing, just holding.

“I don’t mean stop,” she says quickly. “I mean I don’t usually…”

“I know.”

Her face goes even hotter. “You don’t know.”

“I know enough.”

I kiss her once, slower this time, because she needs that even if she won’t ask. Then I look at her and say, “You tell me if anything is too much.”

She nods.

“Words.”

“If it’s too much, I’ll tell you.”

“Good.”

Before she can answer, I move down her body and push my shirt up over her hips.

Her hands fly to the hem. “Wait.”

I stop. She looks suddenly uncertain. Not about me. About herself. About the body I’m trying to see.

I hate whoever taught her to do that.

I close my hand around her knee and spread her leg wider. “Let go of the shirt.”

Her fingers tighten.

“Zoya.”

Her eyes meet mine.

Slowly, she releases the fabric.

The shirt rides up, exposing her stomach, her hips, her panties. She’s soft everywhere my hands want to be. Curves made to hold. Thighs full under my palms. Waist warm, belly tremblingbecause she’s nervous and turned on and trying not to show both.

I look at her until she starts breathing harder.