Page 108 of Silenced

I feel like the top of my head is about to explode from her begging for something I’m desperate to goddamn gift her.

When I’m done, I pull out and spread her thighs wider than before. As my cum starts to soak her slit, the white pooling and slipping and sliding from her cunt, I moan and lower myself so that I can feast.

She squeaks, then sensation overtakes surprise and embarrassment as her hands in my hair draw me into her, not pushing me away but wanting me closer while I lick her clit then thrust my tongue into her. Her moans turn guttural, deep with longing, resonant with need.

The taste of her alone is beautiful, but together, we’re nectar from the gods.

When my mouth is flooded withus, I surge higher and, without letting her argue, nudge her chin so her mouth opens. Then, with a few inches parting us, I letusloose and gently pour what can only be described as ambrosia into her mouth.

Her cheeks burn hotter than ever but she moans.

I know until the day I die, I’ll hear that moan on repeat—my brain will never let me forget the first time I took my Cassiopeia and made her my own.

26

CASSIE

“So,what you’re saying is that you want me to lie?”

He arches a brow at me. “I could have just messaged her myself.”

While reading his hands, I squirm on his lap because he isn’t wrong, and I shouldn’t really be questioning my luck. “Why didn’t you?”

“Because trust isn’t a one-way street and because you’re beginning to realize that your position is more endangered than it was when you were striving and failing to avoid Rundel on your own.”

“You’re an asshole for shoving that in my face,” I spit, pushing my fruit salad aside.

Every morning with the fucking pomegranates—I used to love them, but now I’m just sick of them.

Much as I’m getting sick of Russian literature.

Along with the full closet in his suite, his bookshelves are back to being stacked. I don’t think he reads anything that wasn’t from the nineteenth-century motherland, and bored I may be, but that bored? Nope.

“The truth stings,” is all he says, doubling down on his ‘I’m an asshat’ quota for the day.

Gritting my teeth, I glower around the breakfast room.

His estate is so big that he has several such places for dedicated dining. I’ve seen them all by this point but got their names from Nikita—his butler—because words like ‘brunch nook’ and ‘lunch den’ aren’t, I assume, in Nikolai’s vocabulary.

But that’s the size of this place—a room for every occasion and then some.

Still, it’s reassuring that he’s let me out of the master suite more than once.

I get the feeling this is phase one, of how many, I’ve yet to figure out. Along the way, my trip to a restaurant is on his schedule, but fuck knows if that’ll happen this year or next.

“I want books for this.”

His brows lift. “I have a library.”

He does.

A massive one.

“It’s full of Russian texts.”

His grimace is sheepish. “Write a list.”

“That’d require a pen and paper,” is my snappish retort.

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