Page 56 of Corrupted Guilt

She squirmed and moaned against me, rocking her body closer and harder against mine until she pinched my ribs and I half-broke the kiss to wince.

“Oh shit, damn, I’m sorry . . .” she rolled away from me, somehow.

“No worries,” I held her hips and pulled them back in alignment with mine, “Don’t you dare leave me. I haven’t felt this good in days.”

“We can’t,” she protested. “You’ll never heal this way. Once you are healed then we can … well do whatever we like.”

“We can do whatever we likenow,” I tell her as I press her onto her back, my parted lips dragging over her throat and chest. “And later,” I assured her with my mouth covering hers, drawing in the tender flesh of her lips as she moaned in acquiescence.

I cupped her breasts in my hands and sucked at her nipples lightly as her hips rocked helplessly trying to relieve the tension.

“This is all I’ve thought of in this bed, don’t you dare move from it now,” I warn her in a soft whisper. “You’re so beautiful. Your skin, your smell, every single piece of you.” My hand slid between her thighs, easing them apart.

Skillfully I teased her lips and the sensitive bud of flesh within, she jolted as I dipped one finger inside her. Her eyes flew open, and she reached down reflexively, gripping my wrist, her eyes never leaving mine.

I stared down at her chocolatey, wet, dreamy eyes, “Relax, kiska. Lay back, trust me, enjoy this as much I do,” I tell her huskily.

Her body had clamped my finger, throbbing as she awkwardly tugged at my wrist, but I resisted her futile attempts to stop.

My thumb swirled over the tight, sensitive bud, more gently than I thought possible, and she let go of my wrist, her legs fell open gently like the petals of a flower for the sun. My finger slid deeper inside as I pressed my lips to hers.

I slipped two fingers inside, stretching her tight, my fingers thrusting deep, deep, and she couldn’t help arching in hot confusion.

“Stop,” she whispered through dry lips. “Please . . ..”

I whispered in her ear, “Nope.”

She spread her legs, helplessly rocking against my hand.

She bucks up into my palm. Another rush of blood to my cock doubles the ache. I’m about to bust in my pants like a horny fucking teenager. I try to keep my attention on her, remind myself that coming is going to hurt like a motherfucker for me, so fucking don’t do it.

Katya was unraveling before me with astonishing force, tumbling headlong through her release as she moaned and gasped. “Open your eyes, kiska,” I command her. She does, her eyes ragged, “I’m going to jerk off to this for the rest of my life and I need to know exactly how you look writhing with my fingers inside you. I just thought you should know that, close your eyes,” I tell her, and she does.

I kiss her, sucking her lips as if I could taste the whimper and moans of pleasure coming out of her.

She loved what I just told her, that was clear.

Another jolt went through her body, her muscles stiffening, her legs closing and clenching my hand and fingers while my mouth never stopped ravishing hers.

After her moans and gasps and clenching muscles turned to shivers, she wilted against me. My hand rubbed her ass in comforting circles.

“Your body has gone as taut as a bowstring,” I said drowsily over her head. “And after all the work I just did to relax you.” A chuckle escaped me at her mortified silence. My hand came to her back, caressing the length of her spine.

“You aren’t still sick, are you?” I ask her, remembering the last time we did this, it ended with her running off to the toilet. A blow to my ego if I hadn’t just ravaged her. Still, I didn’t want that to be her normal response.

Her eyes go down to the floor, her body stiffens again, “No, I’m okay now. I felt woozy before but all good now.”

Her body language screams deception, but I have no idea why. I watch her closely.

“How was the talk with Dmitry?” I ask, watching her every move. “I never had the chance to ask you before.”

“Emotional,” she says, and I believe her.

“I’ll bet he was a good listener,” I tell her.

She chuckles, “Yeah,” her eyes still won’t meet my own and her hands worry at her hair, twirling and fidgeting in it.

I’m studying her and realize this may not be deception but more lack of confidence right now. Her false confidence is gone, worn away, and now she must rebuild it, from the ground which may turn into real confidence. This lake house, the Florence Nightingale routine she’s been doing with me, all of this was the beginning of real confidence, but it seems it’s all gone now. Why?

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