Page 132 of Dance of Devils
My mouth goes slack, drool soaking the sheets beneath me as he keeps pounding into me, the raw heat inside me curling and twisting and coiling.
“Don’t keep that from me, little sinner,” he groans. “Give it to me. Give me that fucking pretty pussy cum until it's all over my cock and dripping from my balls. Then and only then will I let you have my cum. So stop fucking holding back” —I cry out when he spanks my ass hard, his cock thrusting deep into me— “andgive me that fucking orgasm like a good girl.”
It's like a trigger being pulled.
My entire body spasms and wrenches against the binds holding me in place. Iyellmy orgasm into the bedsheets, writhing andshaking as it thunders through me. My eyes roll back, my back arching violently as Kir keeps fucking me right through my orgasm.
He groans, his cock swelling even bigger inside me. And suddenly, I’m moaning when I feel his hot cum spilling deep inside. He hisses and pulls out, stroking his fat cock against my pussy as more ropes of sticky, hot cum spurt across my ass and all over my pussy. He grunts and rams back in deep, grinding into me as more cum pulses from his cock.
Everything is buzzing. My very skin feels electrified, and there’s a low whine in my ears. I’m only dimly aware of him releasing my wrists and ankles and scooping me into his arms, and then I'm clinging to him in sweet fucking oblivion.
31
BROOKLYN
“How did you get this?”
We’re lying in his bed, me in his arms. Now that the blindfold's off, I’ve had a chance to truly look at him completely naked…
And holyfuck.
Talk about exceeding expectations.
The man is built like a freakinggod. I’m not exaggerating when I say thatnoneof the guys I dance with at the Zakharova—who are all basically fifteen to twenty years younger than Kir, and, you know, professional athletes—have physiques that even come close.
He’s lean and powerful, with smooth, chiseled muscles. Currently, I’m using some of those warm, strong muscles as a pillow as I rest my cheek on his chest, listening to the even beat of his heart as I bask in everything that’s just happened.
I trace a finger over the scar—one of several on his body—that I’ve just asked about, and his strong arms tighten around me. When he remains silent, I shake my head.
“You don’t have to answer,” I murmur.
“Siberia.” He inhales slowly. “We were working on improving a rail line to accommodate heavier transports. The cold snapped a steel tie, and one of the spikes launched out of the ground like a bullet and grazed me as it flew by.”
I blink in shock, my brows knitting. My teeth worry my lip, my hand lying flat on his scar like I’m trying to heal it with my touch.
“I didn’t know you worked in Siberia.”
He grunts a mirthless laugh.
“It wasn’t by choice.”
I twist my head to look up into his face. “What do you mean?”
“Zavolzhsky Penal Camp Eighteen wasn't a job,” he grunts. “It was a work camp.”
I stare at him. “Like a prison camp?”
He nods, and my mouth twists.
“When was this?”
“About thirty-four years ago.”
I frown, stiffening as I do the math before my eyes widen as I stare at him in shock and horror.
“You were fuckingten!? That’s—” I stare at him in disbelief before my face caves, thinking about him as achildworking in a Siberian labor camp and almost getting killed by a flying railway spike. “That’shorrible.”
His jaw tightens. “That’sRussia, in the post-Soviet scramble for power between warring Bratva families and the actual government, which was really just a better-funded mafia group.”
