Page 80 of Wilt

I don’t know how to find the words, so I don’t. He leans in and kisses me softly. I let go of the sheet and slide my hands up along his shirt, to his neck, and I wind my legs around him, cling to him, unable to stop it. Surprisingly, he doesn’t reprimand me or take my hands away, so I lift my fingers and thread them through his soft, thick hair, kissing him back.

This sweet kiss holds so much; the promise of a carnal adventure, a savage center I want, and all the answers to the dark secrets in my head. He’s delicious and spice and he’s hot and his tongue is a tease and my head spins.

When he pulls back, breaking the kiss, and steps away, out of my reach, it’s like he takes a piece of me with him.

Nikolai moves about the room, taking off his shoes and socks and emptying the pockets of his jacket. Then he comes back to me, stands back, and, keeping eye contact, starts to strip.

My mouth goes dry.

This is for me.

First, he slides off his jacket, tossing it to the armchair near the window. Then, he loosens and pulls off his tie.

There’s something about a man like him doing this, elegant, brutal, sensual, masculine, tattooed, that makes me ache deeper and harder than before. He slowly takes off the cufflinks and then, with a ghost of a smile, starts to unbutton his cream shirt.

My mouth is beyond dry. It’s so dusty, it might start watering. I know that thought makes no sense, but it’s true. The intensity of want and need on his features is somehow magnified by his deliberate, slow movements, and it echoes, that need and want, in every one of my own cells.

One by one, he undoes those buttons and tosses away the shirt.

That torso, with the sculpted muscles and abs, is glorious. With the flicker of the candles, the demons and angels and other tattoos seem to move.

Powerful. Perfect.

Erotic.

A thrill passes through me as he goes for his belt and pulls it off slowly. My clit throbs, blood pound in my ears as it heads south. I could have him strip for me every day and never tire of it.

He unbuttons his pants and pushes them down, along with his underwear. He’s so sexy, I can barely stand it. His cock is erect, thick, beautiful with a bead of pre-cum on the tip, and I want it.

I’m making little panting sounds that I can’t stop. I want him in my pussy, my mouth. I just want him.

The thing with Nikolai stripping is he did it for me, holding my gaze, cranking the heat in the room up to scorching, but he didn’t make a game of it, he didn’t exaggerate. No, it was just the impossibly deliberate move of taking off his clothes.

It was better than any strip show I can think of.

Now my want is so consuming, so intense, that I’m aching everywhere. I’m shivering, needing his touch, needing him, so badly that I might spontaneously combust.

Nikolai climbs on the bed and my heart goes crazy, my body a mess of desire that’s so strong, it almost hurts. He cradles my cheek, body on top of mine as he kisses me, the weight and heat of him somehow perfect with his gentle touch, with the sweet softness of his slow, lingering kiss that makes me fly.

I can’t help it; my hand comes to his face as he kisses me again, and then he turns his head, lips nuzzling my palm in a caress, tongue hot and wet on my skin. I throb, shivering harder against him.

It’s as if a fever has taken me, but it’s one I want more than anything.

That fever, the burn in my blood, means this is happening. It means he’s here, touching me, and a part of me slips down into that wild emotion inside me. Emotion for him.

“Rose,” he says in a whisper, turning to meet my gaze. “You’re so beautiful, so lovely, I…”

He doesn’t finish his sentence. Instead, he starts to kiss me, moving down. There are no bites, nothing hard or rough or demanding like before. This is different.

Everything’s been stripped away and it’s just me and Nikolai, my heart fluttering and dancing as I fall down into him, piece by piece. I want him, I need him. It’s burning hot in my bones. Desire. Lust. Something else. A softness inside, vulnerability that’s all for him. It’s almost what I thought falling in love would be like.

This isn’t love, but it’s something.

I’m drawn to him, want to willingly fall to his flame. His mouth and tongue are so sweet on me that the fever rises, and I want to cry. I’ve never… never felt like this, like I’m being worshiped, wanted, desired. Loved.

He doesn’t. He can’t. I can’t.

Right?

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