Page 600 of Hell Hath No Fury
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After margaritas and fresh, spicy tacos, Misha invites me to his house. A little tipsy and more than a lot into him, I agree.
He does the opening my door thing again, something I’m not sure if I’ll ever get used to, and takes my hand. Something else I’m not sure I’ll get used to. I never thought I’d be the type of woman to enjoy constant, casual affection. A brush of his hand on the small of my back as he leads me to the restaurant. A finger on my lip to wipe away a bit of picante sauce. His hand hot and hard on my thigh. He doles it out like second nature, and I find myself greedy for it. Like a flower gone too long without sun.
It’s not until we’re coming up the walk that I actually look up and take in his house. The sweeping porch, exposed beams and farmhouse charm is definitely not what I was expecting.
“My parents left it and the farm to me in their will. I could never quite make myself sell it. Grandpa liked to come over sometimes and remember them. And it’s a great neighborhood, if I ever decided to have a family.”
“It’s wonderful. And so big!” I look around in awe. “I think it’s bigger than my whole floor in New York.”
He laughs as he opens the door for me to walk in. “I like my space.”
The interior is light and bright, even though the sun is already setting. The walls are a beautiful exposed white shiplap that’s common in the south and are accented with antiques andsoft blues and greens. The whole space is open from entryway to kitchen. I can even see an expansive backyard through the French doors on the far side of the eat-in nook. “I’ll say.”
As he steps in and takes off his coat and tie, hanging them on the hooks by the door, I study the pictures on the walls. I find one of him when he was young, surrounded by his parents and his grandpa. They look happy. What I imagine a real family looks like.
A pang echoes in my chest and when I look at the next picture, recognizing Misha next to a beautiful blonde bombshell, the pang nearly steals my breath away.
“Is this your ex-wife?” I ask, hating the insecurity that makes my voice thin. “She’s beautiful.”
He turns me away from the picture, his hands cupping my cheeks so I have to look into his eyes. “You’re beautiful,Stellichka,” he says with such conviction, I forget my moment of petty jealousy.
I twine my arms around his neck and pull his mouth down to mine. His hands skim down my rumpled tunic dress and grip the bare skin of my thighs. My knees buckle when he grips the spot just beneath my ass to press me against him. I lift my hands to his chest for balance, clutching the collar of his button-up shirt.
His big hands lift me up and he leverages his weight to press me against the wall next to the panoramic, floor-to-ceiling windows in his living room. I try not to think about his neighbors, about how they may happen by a window and look into his and see us. They aren’t terribly close, but close enough to send my senses into hyperawareness. My heart thuds a quick tattoo in my ribs and I moan into his mouth, spurring his hands to wander up and underneath the hem of my dress.
Reaching down, I try to stop them, try to pull away and protest. We should go to his bedroom. Find a bed, like a normal couple, somewhere not out in the open like this, where anyonecan see. The thought nearly makes me laugh, but the wave of an orgasm is already swelling inside of me just from the threat of an audience. He quells my protest with a nip of his teeth. My hands change direction, aiming his closer to the need pulsing between my legs.
I see a light flick on out of the corner of my eye and my head drops back against the wall. Misha’s lips trace my jaw and the line of my throat with deft precision. His hands are urging my hips in a subtle rhythm against his thigh and I want to wrap my body around him like ivy around a pole.
“Let’s go upstairs,” I say into the shadows.
“No,” he says, following the line of my shirt to my exposed cleavage. “Right here. Now.”
“But,” I murmur, the word breaking off in the middle on a strangled moan. “The windows.”
He chuckles as he pulls down my shirt to bare my breasts. “No one’s watching,” he says.
“You don’t know that,” I say.
“You’re right.” I nearly choke and then he adds, “I’m watching. I want to watch you. I want to watch you come all over my fingers, then I’ll watch you come while I use my mouth on you, then again all over my cock.”
With a desperate sound, I pull him closer, needing to taste him again. His purely masculine taste and the tang from the margarita is intoxicating, intensifying my lightheadedness. His nimble fingers slip under my dress and pull my panties to the side. My breath catches and our eyes meet and my arms tighten around his shoulders. He doesn’t break eye contact and for one guilty moment, I imagine the man from The Sanctum is him. As he works me up, up, up, I look at him and wish he was. As I fly over the first peak, I imagine them both watching me lose control, then I forget everything but him.
My legs are shaking by the time I come down. Disoriented, it takes me a moment to realize Misha’s already on his knees. With a devilish grin, he drapes one of my legs over his shoulders. I don’t have time to think, or catch my breath—which is most certainly his plan, and it’s diabolical—before his tongue turns my knees to water with it’s precision. Incredibly, he brings me to the edge again, but this time he holds me there. One hand keeping my leg clamped to his shoulder and the other holds my dress up so he can watch the effects of his ministrations play across my face.
I grip his head with both hands, wanting both to ease his unrelenting assault and make sure it never ends. He adjusts his shoulders to cup my hips with both hands to bring me ever closer to the careful flicks of his tongue.
Another light flicks on next door, drawing my attention to the wide open windows with a jerk of my neck. Cool air rushes across my heated cheeks. Shadows move behind the curtains. There are people there. My thighs tighten in his hold and I try to wiggle my hips back, but his grip is immovable. Caught, pinned, forced to feel everything, my breath stops up in my throat and I let out a silent scream as I fly out into the night’s sky.
When he drapes me over the couch and arranges my legs over his shoulders and takes me over again, I forget about The Sanctum. I forget about the man. I forget about my own lack of direction and my worries and my future.
The only thing I think about is him as he brings me up and over again.
And again.
And again.
