He pulled back, yanked my thong down my legs, and tossed the fabric to the floor. Gaze dark, he stared at my pussy for a second before pressing his face between my thighs with a masculine sound of satisfaction that broke my body out in goose bumps. When he sucked my clit into his mouth, my eyes rolled back in my head.
“Has anyone else done this to you?” he rasped.
Barely interpreting the words, I shook my head.
He made a pleased noise in his throat and pushed two fingers inside me. “And this?”
Panting, I rocked my hips against his hand, but he refused to give me any movement.
“And this?” he repeated roughly.
I never assumed D’yavol would be one to initiate conversation during sex. Though it wasn’t the Russian kingpin between my legs; it was the man who stole my breath and virginity—and maybe my heart. Knowing I wouldn’t get what I wanted until I answered, I nodded.
“How many men have had their fingers inside you?” he growled.
With a heavy sigh, I asked, “How many women have you done this to?”
He didn’t like the question. Hypocrite.
“We’re not talking about me.”
“Why are we talking at all?”
“Because this body is mine, and I need to know who’s fucked with it.” His fingers were still inside me, and it was seriously distracting.
“Can we have this conversation later?”
“Nyet. How many?”
I groaned in frustration, then rattled off a random number. “Seventeen.”
“Malen’kaya lgunishka . . .” His eyes narrowed. “Seventeen, and not one could get you off?”
“How many women have you been with?” I snapped. “I’m sure I’d need to have a one-night stand every day for ten years to match your number.”
He smiled. “Three thousand six hundred and fifty-two is a sum I could only aspire to meet—that is, if we’re taking leap days into account. If not, minus two, and I may have a better shot.”
Did he just do the math in his head? God, that was . . . hot.
“I have faith in you,” I told him. “But be careful. One of them might end up meaning something to you.” The words seared like acid on my tongue.
He watched me for a second. “Ya dumayu uzhe slishkom pozdno dlya etogo.” I didn’t know what he’d said, but the significance of his voice made my throat thick. The words felt . . . oddly touching in a way, even while he was manipulating me to submit by use of sexual torture.
I didn’t want to tell him about my past. I didn’t want to think about Carter and the one other man I’d let get to third base. The Moorings’ Mila and the Mila lying in D’yavol’s bed were so different, I was afraid if I introduced them, everything around me would go up in smoke.
After a heavy moment of eye contact, he pulled his fingers free and moved up my body.
“I need to know, kotyonok.” He pressed his lips to mine softly, and I sighed into his mouth, tasting myself on his tongue. When he pulled away, I grasped his hair and tried to drag him back, but he caught my wrists and shackled them to the mattress on either side of my head, his gaze suddenly serious. “I need to know everything. Who’s kissed you. What you wash your hair with. How many licks it takes you to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop.” His eyes hardened. “And if I have to tie you up again to get the answers, I will.”
It should matter that he’d just threatened to restrain me, but it didn’t. My heart loved everything he said and melted in my chest like chocolate. It was impossible to deny Ronan when he showed his semi-sweet side. And I really didn’t want to be tied up again.
“You first,” I said breathlessly.
By his unenthused expression, I didn’t think he’d actually indulge me, so I was surprised when he said, “What do you want to know?”
Oh, so much. Though now I was being given the green light for my questions, all of them evaded me. It was hard to think with him straddling me, his mouth so close to mine. If he wanted to delve into my minuscule sexual history, he had to be just as transparent.
“How many women have you been with?”