Page 56 of Dirty Grovel

“I-I can’t breathe,” I heave, pulling at the neckline of my camisole. “I can’t breathe…”

As soon as I say it, I feel the fabric give way under Oleg’s hands. It rips apart and I’m free of the thin material.

“Better?” he asks, running his hands up and down my back.

I shiver under his touch. His fingertips are cool and comforting. I place my cheek against his shoulder and revel in his caresses.

“Better,” I agree.

“You’re okay.”

“You don’t know that. I don’t even know that.”

“Trust me. I recognize strength when I see it,” Oleg says.

I pull back, startled. “I’m not strong. I never was.”

“Who told you that?”

“My mother.” It’s never been easy for me to talk about this. Not even with Sydney. But for some reason, right now, the admission comes easily. “She used to tell me to stick with Sydney because I would always need to be looked after. She called me her ‘delicate flower.’”

“I could see it,” he admits, head tilted to the side. Then he shakes his head. “But you’ve got thorns. The kind that can and will draw blood if you pick it.”

“You honestly believe that?”

We’re practically nose to nose. The gold in his eyes is mesmerizing. I can’t look away, even if I wanted to.

“Yes,” he says, “I do.”

Before I can second-guess the instinct, I arch up, catching his lips with mine.

He freezes.

I do, too.

But our lips stay together, fused together, melting together.

His palm snakes up my back. Mine curls around his arm. And I lean into the kiss, asking for it, deepening it, inviting him in.

He pushes me back onto my bed, his tongue slipping between my lips as he parts my legs with his knees.

I’m vaguely aware of my panties coming off, vaguely aware of his fingers slipping between my legs.

And then my body comes alive.

I buck against his fingers, my hands pulling at his biceps, drawing him closer. I’m desperate for his heat.

Within minutes, he has me screaming out loud, my screams echoing against the walls of my room, doing battle with the cavernous silence.

As I tremble from the first orgasm, Oleg’s lips circle my nipple.

“Oleg,” I murmur, breathless, barely coherent. “Oleg, please…”

I have no idea what I’m pleading for. I have no sense of who I am or where I am.

It’s just him and me, locked together, exchanging scents and touches and muted whimpers.

Oleg brushes gentle kisses against my body as he makes his way down between my legs. The pressure on my clit reduces until it disappears altogether.

---