Page 106 of Immaculate Deception (Romanoff Bratva)

I gasp and part my thighs. Needy for him. For this.

He washes and rinses me gently, slowly. Then his finger slides between my folds and the thoughts in my mind dissolve into babble.

I lean back against the shower wall for support. It feels like we are hiding under a waterfall, insulated from the world.

And when Dima circles two of his fingers over my center, the world ceases to exist altogether.

It’s been so long.

So long since I felt good.

So long since he touched me last.

So long since I moaned the words that sealed my fate, all those nights ago.

Harder.

Touch me.

Make me come.

Every time I slid my own hand between my legs in the nights that followed, Dima was on my mind. Even when I didn’t know his name, even when I didn’t know his face, I could remember his scent and imagine his hands on my body.

Now, they’re finally touching me again—and I’m completely falling apart.

Dima slips two fingers inside of me, curling them against my flesh, coaxing sensations out of me I didn’t know existed anymore. My legs tremble and I scrabble my hands against the tile wall, trying to find something to hold onto.

He pulses into me, his thumb circling over my center. Merciless. Relentless.

And I break.

There’s no gradual climb and release. No ebb and flow. It’s just a sudden onslaught. A tsunami of warmth and pleasure. My thighs clamp together, trying to hold him inside of me for as long as I can.

When I finally float back down to reality, Dima slides his hand free and keeps washing me. He cleans my legs and my feet. And when he’s done, he washes himself.

I watch him, still pressed against the tile wall, too dazed to move or care that I’m openly staring.

When he turns off the water, Dima climbs out and then offers me a hand, helping me over the high edge of his tub. He has a small stack of towels under the bathroom sink, and he grabs two and hands me one.

It smells clean. I wrap the soft material around myself. Now that we’re out of the warm sauna of the shower, my teeth chatter with cold.

“Come on.”

Dima walks me into the small apartment. I’m overwhelmed with the scent of him. It’s everywhere.

The room is sparse and tidy. He has a dresser, a nightstand, and a bed on a cheap metal frame. His sheets are rumpled and I want to dive into the blankets and drown in the smell of him.

He pulls out a pair of sweatpants and a sweatshirt and tosses both on the bed. “You can wear those.”

I rub the fabric between my fingers and then turn around. Dima is already looking for something for himself to wear. I’m not sure what he’s thinking. The sexual energy from the bathroom seems distant now, but I’m not ready for it to be over.

My heart races as I turn around and face him. “I don’t want these,” I tell him.

Dima looks over his shoulder at me. I slowly unwrap my towel. His eyes spark.

“I wantyou.”

I walk towards him slowly and he turns to face me. I push the towel from his waist. Immediately, it’s clear that he’s not as calm and collected as he seems. He’s erect and, when I reach down to smooth my hand along his length, he twitches.

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