Page 41 of Craving Dahlia

And yet—I don’t move. I’m frozen there, staring down at her, her scent and her warmth filling my senses. Dahlia’s face softens slightly, her eyes wide as she looks up at me, and I feel her hand start to slide down my chest, stuttering with every motion as her fingertips trail over the ridges of my abs, only the thin fabric of my shirt between her skin and mine.

I can’t recall ever having been so fucking hard in my entire life, except for the first night we were together. My breath catches in my throat, memories of that night flooding in, burning through me, as Dahlia’s fingers drop to the edge of my jeans. My hips arch forward, grinding my stiff cock into her thigh, and she lets out the smallest, whimpering moan as her fingertips graze the taut skin of my abdomen just beneath my shirt…and catch on one of the thick, raised scars there.

A sharp hiss escapes me, and I jerk back as if I’ve been burned, putting several inches of space between Dahlia and I asI stumble backwards. Her lips part, and I see the moment that she realizes what we were about to do, recognition dawning on her face as she pushes herself away from the barn wall and darts away before I can catch her again.

She turns, looking at me once more, her mouth open as if she’s about to say something, before it snaps shut again. She turns, fleeing up the path back towards the mansion, leaving me standing there rock-hard and stunned.

The feeling of her fingertips against the scar still feels seared into my skin. My cock throbs against my zipper, demanding relief, and I clench my hands into fists, resisting the urge to run after her. To chase her, grab her, topple her into the grass and fuck her until she screams my name like she did that first night.

My hand is already at my belt before I realize it. My mind is fogged with lust, and I clench my teeth until they grind together, flinging myself back against the wall where I had her pinned a moment ago as my fingers feverishly find my zipper and yank it down.

Someone could walk by. Someone could see me, Dimitri Yashkov’s once-feared younger brother, the enforcer of the Yashkov Bratva, jerking off outside over a woman, too feral with lust to wait until I get back to the privacy of my own room.

But I can’t wait. My hand closes around my cock, hard and hot, palming it free of the constraints of my jeans as I start to stroke. My head falls back against the sun-warmed wood of the wall, the pleasure jolting over my skin like pinpricks of electricity, my abs already tightening in anticipation of my orgasm as I stroke.

My shaft is already wet with pre-cum, and I rub my palm over the head, getting it wet as I start to stroke faster. I spread my legs wider, hips thrusting up into my hand, wanting to think of anything other than Dahlia—any woman, any infatuation I’ve ever had or anyone who’s ever been in my bed—but she’s all Ican think of. The scent of her in my nose, the wet heat of her against my mouth, the way she moaned and writhed as I ate her out in that elevator. The hot clasp of her around my bare cock, so fucking tight, the most exquisite pleasure I can remember feeling in so long that nothing else can compare now—and those memories play over and over again in my head until I fixate on the one that makes my balls tighten and heat gather at the base of my spine, my cock throbbing in my fist.

Her on her knees in that cab, her lips wrapped around me, eyes wet with tears as she choked on it, my hand fisting in her hair. The raw eroticism of it, the control, the power I had over her, forcing her to suck my cock while the cab driver listened—that might have been the hottest fucking moment of my entire life. And as I play it over again in my head, my hand a blur on my cock now as I stroke it roughly, I know that’s what’s going to make me come.

Right out here in the open, because there’s no fucking way I can stop even long enough to go inside. I’m going to come, and as much as I hate it, I know I’m going to come forher.

“All over your fucking face—” I snarl, envisioning her on her knees in front of me, head back and mouth open for my cum, and the white-hot pleasure overtakes me in an instant as I slam my hand down to the base of my cock, my shaft rock-hard and throbbing as I explode.

I moan, the ragged sound filling the air as my cum arcs out onto the grass, splashing everywhere as I stroke roughly, imagining that I’m coating Dahlia in it. Covering her in it, like I did that night that I fucked her. I remember the feeling of her clit under my finger, slick with it, and another shuddering spasm wracks me, more shooting from the tip of my cock as I close my eyes and groan.

Years without sex, and after one night, I can’t fucking control myself.I feel dizzy as the pleasure ebbs, my cocksoftening in my fist, my stomach twisting with self-loathing as I look at the mess I’ve made. I shove my cock back into my jeans, zipping up as my jaw tightens, fresh resolve to not let myself lose control like this again washing over me. But I stare in the direction that Dahlia walked away, and I know that control is fraying with every day that passes.

Marrying her was a mistake. I should have left well enough alone, made her prove that the child was mine before I agreed to anything at all.

I was already barely keeping it together. Now, her proximity might be enough to drive me fucking insane.

—

Thankfully,Dahlia is nowhere to be seen when I get back to the mansion. I go to the kitchen, where the cook is more than happy to fix me a ham sandwich and chips to take back up to my room so that I don’t have to see the others for lunch, and I retreat to the privacy of my bedroom. I pace as I eat, feeling caged, frustrated at feeling the need to stay in this small space in order to avoid Dahlia.I wish she’d never fucking moved in here.

I flop back onto my bed, trying not to think about her. But the memory of her from earlier comes back, and just as the image of her wide eyes looking up at me as I pinned her swims back into my mind, I hear her voice floating from downstairs.

It’s not clear enough for me to know what she’s saying, but it grates on me—mostly because Ilikethe sound of her voice. It’s soft and musical, cultured in the way that someone who’s grown up with money is, and I feel myself stiffening again as I listen to it.

Fuck. I can’t stop myself. In a matter of seconds, my cock is out and in my hand again, and I close my eyes, running my handalong my stiff length as I listen to the faint tones of Dahlia’s voice.

I’ve fucking lost it. Jerking off to the sound of a woman talking…my hand moves faster, rubbing over the sensitive head, my body completely forgetting that I came harder than I have in weeks just an hour or so ago.

I hear her footsteps on the stairs, the sound of her humming under her breath. Those footsteps come closer, and I look quickly towards the door to make sure it’s locked. It is, and I stroke faster still, imagining her hearing the wet slap of my hand against my shaft, of her feeling herself get wet, remembering how it felt inside of her.

She still has no idea how much better it could fucking feel. The things I could do to her?—

The footsteps get closer, near my door, and my cock stiffens, my balls abruptly drawing up as the orgasm hits me just at the thought of Dahlia outside, hearing me jerk off. A groan escapes me, long and ragged, filled with the pleasure of my climax as cum spurts into my hand, and I hear her footsteps stop.

I imagine I can hear her breathing, the rapid pound of her heart, that I can smell her fear and desire all mixed together. I’ve never felt like as much of an animal as I do at this moment, with my cum coating my hand and my wife standing just outside the door, not even when I was caged like one.

A moment passes, my hand still wrapped around my cock, beads of cum still pearling from the tip and dripping over my fingers as the last of my orgasm ripples through me. And then…the footsteps move on.

My chest heaves, my breathing coming hard as I let go of my cock, shoving myself up from the bed. That feeling of self-loathing hits again, and I rub my clean hand over my face, groaning into my palm as I get up on shaky legs, staggering to the shower to clean up.

A hot shower and change of clothes later, I feel slightly more human—and frantic to get out of the mansion. My room feels too small, too confined, and I finish getting dressed, grabbing the keys to my bike and stalking downstairs. I pass Dimitri just as I head for the door, and he stops, frowning.

“Not joining us for dinner?”

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