Page 57 of Dirty Damage

I thought I wanted to be blindfolded, but watching him thrust his fingers into me—watching himwatchhis fingers disappear inside of me—is almost enough to send me over the edge.

He’s entranced by the way I take him, the way I roll my hips to take him deeper.

And when he strokes his fingers inside of me, curling against my detonation point, I scream.

Oleg moves with me, one arm banded behind my back, holding me as I dissolve in his arms and on his hand. Wave after wave of the most powerful orgasm I’ve ever felt has me drowning, but he strokes me back to earth with soft caresses and a single kiss to the soft skin of my hip.

I’m sagging from the headboard when his warmth slips away.

My hands strain against the cuffs, desperate to touch him, to pull him closer. I need more—I need all of him.

But I’m bound and at his mercy.

The slide and click of his nightstand drawer cuts through my fog of need. The crinkle of a wrapper.

Oleg holds the condom between his teeth, ready to tear, when our eyes lock.

Understanding hits us both like a bullet between the ribs.

We don’t need it.

I’ve never had sex without a condom. It’s something I should have thought about before now, but my brain has been too busy short-circuiting over the reality of Oleg Pavlov wanting me.

There will be nothing between us. Because we’re not just having sex—we’re trying to make a baby.

His face changes as he stares at the wrapper, something dark and haunted crossing his expression.

“I almost forgot.” The words come out strangled, like they’re meant for someone else.

For the first time, I see a crack in his armor. A glimpse of the man beneath the Beast.

He rolls away abruptly, muscles rigid under his shirt. The condom drops back into the drawer with a finality that makes my chest ache. His shoulders rise and fall with harsh breaths as he stands with his back to me, and I realize he is still fully clothed.

“Oleg…?” His name comes out as a broken whisper.

When he turns, his face is a mask again, but his eyes… God, his eyes are wild with something that looks like panic.

He releases the cuffs with mechanical movements, refusing to meet my gaze.

I rub my wrists, searching his face for any hint of what went wrong. “Did I… did I do something?”

“You did nothing,” he snarls, but the rage in his voice doesn’t match the lost look in his eyes.

For a split second, those golden irises meet mine, and I see too much—fear, want, pain.

Then he blinks, and all of it disappears.

“Get some rest.” It’s a command that leaves no room for argument. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”

I start to slide off the bed, but his voice cracks like a whip.

“No. Stay here. I’ll go.”

The comforter lands over me like a shield, hiding my body from his view. He turns away instantly, like he can’t bear to look at me anymore.

Then he’s gone.

16

---