Page 38 of His Hold

“So you don’t care about me?” It’s a rhetorical question. I’m only teasing him. That’s the reason I asked but with his silence, I’m starting to wonder if maybe I mean it. It’s the damn weather and the fact that we’re stuck here. That’s it. Otherwise, why would I be concerned about what this neanderthal thought of me?

The sound of a hammer hitting a nail continues for quite some time before stopping. I wait and wait, but his head doesn’t come out again. It’s almost as though he isn’t even in the house anymore, and I’d have believed so if I didn’t hear the small, weightless sounds of his buttons releasing. My brain somersaults with a daunting realization: he’s taking off his shirt.

I was too caught up in the madness to notice then, but now... Now my mind turns everything over, trying to piece together every glimpse of him I’ve caught so far. Strong shoulders. Toned chest. Scars lining his arms and back.

It starts from my belly, like a stubborn ache. Then, without warning, it begins to progress, expertly to the dip of my chest, just between my breasts. I reach up with one hand and silently brush a finger or two against my nipples through my shirt.

He put me in his clothes yesterday. After fucking me in mine.

I feel a zing almost immediately, the kind you feel when you’re on the verge of a mindblowing orgasm. I snap my hands back, biting down the moan about to escape.

Why do I react to this man like this?

I should hate him. And I do—God—I do, but my body doesn’t seem to know this. It feels decidedly oblivious to the hate, borrowing itself to lust. In all honesty, I don’t think there’s a woman on earth who’d not be thrilled or captivated by Nikolai Ramensky. He’s all that and more. Well, physically, alright. Emotionally, he’s got the heart of a jellyfish, and jellyfish don’t even have hearts.

And there’s that thing he does with his hair that just makes my insides tingly. He puts it in a man bun, but lets a strand or two fall across his forehead. He has a perpetually stoic expression, but on the days he smiles or laughs, I come undone.

Finally, he emerges from the room, shirtless. He’s still in those dark slacks from yesterday, but nothing else. I take in his body. Those rippled abs like waves across his stomach, and tattoos sleeving both arms and stretching across his back. A few tattoos dot his belly, too.

I swallow hard at the scars. When he turns, I see a tattoo of a human skull wearing a hat, stretched over his pale skin. Just beneath the skull’s thin nose—if I can even call it that—a long, awkward scar cuts across, like an afterthought. More scars are scattered over his back and belly.

“How many times have people tried to kill you, Nikolai?” I blurt out, too stunned to stop myself.

He breezes past to the kitchen, and returns with a dish. “Including you? Not enough.”

“Your scars disagree. And I only tried. Doesn’t count until I actually succeed.”

“Keep dreaming, princess,” he deadpans, scratching his jaw. The dark stubble there makes him look even more dangerous, but I doubt it means anything to him. He catches me staring, and smirks. “Listen, I handle things like these a lot in my line of work. I eliminate threats. These scars are just gentle reminders.”

“There’s nothing gentle or subtle about these scars,” I insist.

“Why do you care?” he asks, and I can tell he’s just as annoyed as I was only minutes before. “The look on your face tells me you think they’re ugly. They are battle scars, princess, they aren’t supposed to be pretty.”

“Stop talking to me like I’m a child, Nikolai.”

He looks like he’s about to say something else, something that’s going to sting, but changes his mind and moves back to the room, closing the door just a little. Great, now I can’t even see him anymore.

I make do with the image that’s already imprinted in my head: his strong, endless shoulders, the muscular chest, the abs that look like they werecreated bya very good 3D printer or modern AI, the low V dragging downward to his pants. My mind bends to the memory, adjusting itself to fit in every particular detail until he’s all in.

I flick my hardened nipples with a finger, rolling them between my thumb and forefinger. The sweetness gathers down in my pussy, and I moan.

Fuck. See just what your body does to me, Nik. See how wet I am for you. God. Ooh…

I shove my hand through my shirt to cup my breasts in my palm and squeeze, hard. Delicious ripples of pleasure course through me, at the feel of my hands there. My imagination claws back to him, pretending that he’s the one touching me like that, his rough fingers claiming me. I let out another strangled moan and quickly slap a hand over my mouth, but it’s too late—the sound’s already escaped.

I hear movements in the other room, but he doesn’t come out. Good. I don’t need him being here while I try to get off on his smell and taste and body, while I drown in the sick need for him.

I slip my fingers down my shorts to my already wet pussy and tease my folds, slow and deliberate. Holy fuck! Oh, God… ooh…

It’s instinct, what I’m doing right now. There is nothing dignified or sexy about it, masturbating to a man whom I can’t wait to take out. But I do it anyway, running my fingers through the folds, feeling as the sensations simmer on my skin, building into something feral.

It only takes me about a few flicks more to begin thrashing against the bed, my eyes firmly shut, lost in the haze. The world disappears in this version where I’m caught between desperately wanting Nikolai and forever hating him, the two twisting together.

My fingertips are inert for a beat as I try to steady myself. I bring them out, see how very wet and slick they are, glistening with my shame, and groan.

God, this feels too good!

I run my tongue across my lips, feeling it becoming charred from how dry it now is. I shift my hips on the bed, adjust my fingers in, rub slow circles against my clit, and increase the pace, chasing that edge.

---