Page 40 of Preferential Treatment

“Yeah… um. Yeah. Definitely.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

“If you come inside me, I’ll be forced to punish you.”

Mikhail had only landed in Chicago a couple of hours ago, and the first thing he’d done was call Kate. Now he was naked, seated in front of the chessboard, hands gripping the arms of his chair as if it were the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth. Kate was in the process of lowering herself onto his cock, taking him into the hot, silky clasp of her body. He felt her inner muscles stretch and flex as she sank down, pulling him in deeper and deeper.

He drew in a staggered breath. “Knyazhna, I can’t—”

“Shush,” she said impatiently, though a hint of breathlessness betrayed her.

Her full weight settled on his lap, his entire cock buried deep inside her perfect cunt. He spread his thighs restlessly, letting out another tortured groan as he felt her clench down on him.

She laughed at his agony. “Oops, so sorry,” she said insincerely. “Now. Let’s begin. You’re white.”

“Pawn to e4,” he gritted out.

She leaned forward to move his pawn for him and the subtle movement of her body was torturously stimulating. He couldn’t help himself, his hands went to her hips, gripping her over her rucked-up skirt before sliding down to her bare thighs.

“Knyazhna…”

“I don’t remember saying you could touch me.” She bounced a little, riding up and down his cock in slight increments.

“Ah, no. No, please—” His hands tightened on her thighs, trying to hold her in place. “Please knyazhna, you’ll make me—”

She kept on bouncing. “Hands off, then.”

The exquisite feeling of her pussy squeezing on him with each little bounce was making it impossible to think. The physical pleasure of the current predicament was at war with the need to obey—to not come before he had permission. He didn’t want to fail. But if he failed, he’d not only get to come, he’d also have the masochistic joy of however she decided to punish him.

The urge to obey—to succeed—won out. With a pained breath, he wrenched his hands away from her thighs, gripping the arms of the chair again with white-knuckled desperation.

Kate settled her ass back onto his lap with a wicked giggle. “Good boy.” After a moment, she elbowed him gently. “Your turn.”

“Oh.” He looked over her shoulder at the board, saw that she’d opened with her king’s knight. “Knight to c3.”

Her inner muscles flexed around him again as she leaned forward to make his move. He concentrated on breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth, keeping his hands securely on the arms of the chair. Kate remained in that posture for a second before deciding to move her bishop out.

Mikhail tried his damnedest to keep a clear head and play competitively. He enjoyed beating her at chess. The way a loss lit her eyes up with wounded pride and competitive frustration was viscerally beautiful. But the way she channeled that frustration into sexual physicality was nothing short of divine.

But no matter how clear he tried to keep his mind, the feeling of being inside Kate was burning through his brain cells like wildfire. He lost his queen ridiculously early in the game. He thought he’d gotten ahold of himself, but quickly lost a knight and a bishop to careless mistakes. Kate’s delight was palpable—happy little squeezes on his cock every time she laughed, restless wiggling on his lap when she celebrated another capture.

She wasn’t immune to the feeling, either. When she forgot herself and leaned too far forward, Mikhail knew he was hitting a sweet spot. Her choked little gasp and the sudden stillness of her whole body had him forgetting the rules—hands flying to grasp her by the hips, his own hips working instinctively to grind deep into her heat.

She didn’t stop him right away. Instead, she gripped the sides of the table, head lowered, letting out shallow, panting breaths with each roll of his hips. Mikhail groaned as pleasure lanced through him, but the sound broke whatever spell had fallen over Kate.

“Stop,” she said breathlessly.

The noise that came out of him was inhuman, but he managed to make his body obey. Every muscle was drawn tight, trembling with the agony of self-denial.

“What’s your next move?” she asked, voice strained.

He stared at the board, trying to make sense of it. “Rook to d5.”

She slid his rook over, then reached across the board to bring out the bishop she’d left lurking in the wings.

“Checkmate,” she said with quiet triumph.

He blinked. His gaze darted around the board. It took several seconds before it sank in—he’d lost. “Blyat,” he swore softly.

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