Page 24 of Emerald Malice

But any confidence I have melts in the face of his.

He steps free of his clothes. It’d be overwhelming enough if he was just chiseled, or just bronze and tattooed, or just that perfect balance of hairy chest and gleaming skin that any perfume commercial actor would kill to emulate.

But when I see what kind of equipment he’s working with, my brain literally short-circuits.

“You can’t be serious,” I mumble.

Andrey follows my gaze down and smirks. “Don’t be afraid. I won’t hurt you.”

He pushes me back onto the sofa and then he’s on top, his weight sinking into me, hot and heavy. I’m excruciatingly aware of one thing and one thing only: how absolutely, thoroughly, shamelessly wet I am.

Andrey realizes it, too, when he drags a single finger between my legs and brings it up to examine. “So fucking sweet,” he murmurs as he suckles his own finger.

My brain is fully melted and leaking through my ears now, apparently, because all I can muster up is a monosyllabic, “Wet.”

He laughs again. “You haven’t even gotten close to as wet as you will be,” he promises.

Five minutes ago, I would’ve bet you every penny I’ve ever earned that Andrey was a selfish lover. A get-mine, fuck-yours kind of lay.

I would’ve lost that bet.

Because when he slides between my legs, roughly parts my thighs, and devours my pussy like it’s the last morsel he’ll ever get past his lips, he proves me very, very wrong.

I thrash and moan while he licks up and down my slit and circles my clit in broad, delicious strokes. We’d both be on the floor if it weren’t for his huge hands spanning my waist and keeping me trapped in place.

Then he slides two fingers into me and I’m coming.

It somehow lasts an eternity and a millisecond at the same time. Whatever it is, I’m still tingling with aftershocks when he rises up to snare me in an open-mouthed kiss. I can taste myself on him; nothing has ever been hotter.

“I could eat nothing but you for the rest of my life,” he snarls.

Without waiting for my response, he lines up his dick and slides into me.

He was right about another thing: as wet as I was before he went down on me, I’m ten times wetter now. My desire slicks the inside of my thighs and there is no resistance as I part for him.

He looked huge before. He feels even bigger now.

Three thrusts in and I’m ready to explode again already. My fingers dig into his shoulders as each thrust knocks another moan free. For the entirety of my pitiful sex life, I’ve clamped down on my noises, too afraid of sounding foolish to let them out.

But Andrey isn’t giving me a choice.

If I don’t moan, I’ll implode like a dying star. So, as he fucks me into the couch, harder and faster and more brutally with every passing second, I can’t do anything but cry out to the ceiling.

Sorry, neighbors—I’m about to come harder than I’ve ever come before. You’ll have to forgive the ruckus.

There’s not one muscle I can move without Andrey’s permission. He’s got me fully splayed open and fully at his mercy. And as I come and come and come—andcomeandcomeandcomeandcome—I realize one horrifying truth.

I like being made his.

I’m still panting when he unleashes himself deep into my core, then immediately pulls himself away.

His body is gone and cold air invades. I wrap my arms around myself until I’m cocooned in a tiny ball, all the warmth zapped out of me as Andrey hunts for his clothes on the floor. I reach for the nearest blanket to cover myself.

I’m fully alone in my post-sex clarity because Andrey is already dressed somehow, utterly flawless once again.

A single glance in my direction makes it very clear…

Something has changed.

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