Charlie
He’s a fucking lunatic.
I grit my teeth, trying to bite back a groan because he’s twisting his fingers again and the little hairs he’s grasped are sending electric pain up my body.
“Go on. Remember, you’re trying to avoid the belt, not earn it.”
Slowly, I move my left arm—because my right is trapped against his chest. It takes some maneuvering to get around his hand without touching him, but I manage it. Touching myself isn’t new to me. Over the past two years, it’s been only my own hand doing the fondling. But there wasn’t an audience then.
And there sure as hell wasn’t a Russian mob boss ordering me to do it.
I’m unsurprised when I find the slickness between my folds. It’s not something I can control, this arousal.
“Inside like a good girl,” he directs me; the roughness of his beard scrapes against my bare shoulder as he looks down my body to watch me obey him. “Now show me.”
I lift my fingers, noticing how the light from the dresser lamp makes my own juices shimmer on my fingertip.
A tremor of pain runs across my skin as he releases me. His touch isn’t gone for long though; he grabs my wrist and brings my finger to his mouth. I watch, like a train wreck happening right in front of me, as his tongue runs over my finger, then he closes his lips around it. His lips spread into a wide grin when he pulls my finger out.
“See how easy it is to be a good girl for me?”
Still holding my wrist, he walks me to the bed. He spins me around to face him, and my ass brushes up against the bedding. It’s a high bed, with thick comforters that look more like a cloud than a bed. But I don’t think I’ll be sleeping any time soon.
“How often do you touch yourself?” He lowers his lips to my shoulder, pressing a soft kiss. Much more tender than I expect from him.
“Enough.” How the hell am I supposed to answer such a question?
He kisses my neck, bites hard on my earlobe. “That’s not an answer. Remember, I still have the belt.”
My insides clench.
“Why do you ask? Do you want a show?” I can’t stop the retort from spilling out of my mouth. I’m nervous. And when I get frazzled, sometimes snark falls out.
He chuckles. “Maybe later.” He drops the belt to the floor and using both hands, lifts me up by my hips and deposits me on the bed. “First, I want more.”
Before I can ask more of what, he has me pushed back on the bed and is climbing on with me, between my thighs.
My brain realizes what’s about to happen only a split second before his hot tongue sears a trail of arousal down my inner thigh then touches my wanting, waiting clit. My stomach sucks in as my mind reels from the sensation his tongue elicits. I fist the comforter beneath me as his tongue swishes over my clit, then around and then over. I can’t keep up with the movements, I’m only able to ride the waves as he continues.
Soon, his finger—his thick, long finger—presses against my opening.
“So good,” he mutters against my pussy as he pushes his finger into me. It’s not like the other men I’ve been with. He’s not just jackhammering away with his finger. No, he curls his finger, seeking out that tender spot. And the moment he finds it, he grins up at me.
I hiss when he presses against it, when he drags his finger over it and continues to torture me with his tongue.
“Fuck.” I grab hold of my own hair, trying to forget what’s happening. This man has taken complete control of my body. Instead of flinging insults at him, I’m spreading my thighs further, wanting more of what he’s giving.
“Such a good girl when given the right encouragement.” He slips a second finger inside of me.
I clench my eyes closed. Would denying myself the pleasure do anything but punish myself? But still, he shouldn’t be able to work my body so damn easily.
It’s only a few more strokes of his fingers before the pressure builds to an unrelenting urgency. My feet are flat on the bed, my toes curled and my thighs squeezing.
“Almost there,” he mutters and swirls his tongue around my clit again and again, increasing his strokes, curling his fingers again.
It’s a whirlwind. One second, I can breathe, the next I can barely see. Harsh pellets of pleasure rain down on me. My hand is over my mouth, trying to keep my scream silent, but it’s not working. I’m sure his men can hear me.
Hell, I’m sure the doorman can hear me downstairs.