Page 64 of Cruel Submission

But I catch his wrist. “No. Not yet.”

Confusion flickers across his face. “Mirabel—”

I drop to my knees.

His whole body goes rigid. “What are you—?”

“I said shut up.” I work at his belt buckle with shaking hands. “Unless you want me to stop?”

“No.” The word comes out strangled. “Don’t stop.”

I get his belt open, his zipper down. Free him from his briefs. He’s fully hard already, and the sight makes my mouth water. I just want to make him lose control for once. Want to see him come apart the way he makes me come apart.

I wrap my hand around him and take him into my mouth.

“Fuck.” His hips jerk forward involuntarily. One hand flies to the wall, bracing himself. The other hovers near my hair but doesn’t touch, like he’s afraid I’ll stop if he tries to guide me. “Blyad!” The word is ground out through gritted teeth.

I take him deeper.

His groan echoes off the marble walls. His head falls back against the stone, eyes squeezing shut. I work him with hand and mouth, learning what makes his breath catch, what makes his fingers curl against the wall.

“Stop,” he grits out suddenly. “Zaychik, stop, I’m going to—”

I don’t stop. Just look up at him and take him deeper, and the eye contact breaks him. He comes with a choked sound, hand finally fisting in my hair.

When I pull away, he stares down at me like he’s seeing someone new.

“Get up here,” he says roughly.

I rise slowly, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. Before I can process what’s happening, he’s spinning us around, pressing me against the wall where he just was. His mouth crashes into mine—hungry, consuming. Seeming to love that he can taste himself on my tongue.

His hands are rougher now, yanking my dress up and over my head, tossing it aside. My bra follows. He drops to his knees, pulling my underwear down my legs, and then his mouth is on me.

I cry out, hands flying to his hair. His tongue works against me with single-minded focus, like he’s trying to return the favor, trying to make me as desperate as I just made him. One hand grips my hip, holding me in place. The other slides up my thigh, fingers pressing inside me.

“Arkady—” His name breaks on my lips.

He adds a second finger, curling them perfectly while his tongue circles my clit. The dual sensation is overwhelming. My legs start to shake, and he has to wrap his free arm around my thigh to keep me upright.

The orgasm crashes through me without warning. I muffle my cry against my own hand, body convulsing. He works me through it, not stopping until I’m pushing at his shoulders, oversensitive.

He rises, and I stare at him, his face gleaming with my juices, his eyes still dark with lust.

Jesus, he’s so fucking hot.

“Bedroom,” I manage. “Actually bedroom this time.”

His mouth quirks—almost a smile—and he takes my hand. Leads me down the hall to his room. We leave a trail of his ruined shirt, my discarded clothes.

Inside, I push him onto the bed, staring down at his hard, muscular body. His cock is already hardening again, the thick shaft bumping up against his belly. He reaches for me, but I swat his hands away, then climb over him before he can flip our positions. Straddle his hips with my hands planted on his chest.

“Mirabel—”

“No.” I press a finger to his lips. “My turn to decide how this goes.”

Something shifts in his expression. The control he always maintains dips, just slightly. His expression softens. Not much, but by Arkady standards, he’s practically gentle.

I position myself over him, guide his cock head to my entrance, and sink down slowly, taking him in. The stretch is intense, familiar. Perfect.