“Not yet,” Dmitri says, and I swear he’s smiling, but I can’t see his face. My insides quake and shudder. My pussy throbs for release, and he’s teasing me with his fingers, caressing my labia and my wetness but avoiding my aching clit.
My thighs clench, wanting him to hit that perfect spot.
He smacks my pussy. “Is that what you want?”
“Yes,” I rasp, and my jaw hangs open, drinking in the air, my insides throbbing and pulsating. I’m so close, and he’s not even fucking me.
“God, you’re so fucking hot, Sadie. I want to drive my cock into your tight little hole.”
“Which one?” I rasp.
He chuckles at my question. “That’s a good girl.” His finger wanders over my bottom hole, pressing lightly at the entrance, forcing me to squirm with anticipation.
“Is that what you want? Do you want me to touch you here?”
“Maybe?” I squeak.
“I need a yes or no, Sadie.”
When he says my name, it makes me tinker on the edge. My head is in a fog, my body entirely his for the taking.
“Yes,” I whisper, surprised by my admission.
His finger continues teasing my bottom hole, but he doesn’t push past the entrance.
My hips squirm and rock as I feel the head of his cock teasing my pussy from behind. “Please,” I pant. He’s making me desperate. My hips thrust, wanting him, hoping that he’ll let me reach release.
“I want you so bad,” Dmitri rasps, and nibbles my ear. “But your bottom will have to wait. I want to fuck your tight pussy first.”
I gasp, and his hand grazes my stomach and down into my curls as he thrusts his cock deeper inside me. He stretches me, pounding into my warmth. My insides spasm, growing near.
Each thrust is more powerful, and I tighten around his cock as fireworks explode inside me.
* * *
We should be talking about our inevitable breakup.
But all I can think about is bringing Dmitri home and fucking him again. He’s a drug that I’m addicted to and all I think about. And I hate myself for it.
Sitting across from him at breakfast, my eyes rake over him.
“See something you like?” Dmitri asks. There’s a smirk adorning his face, and the room feels several degrees hotter than a few seconds ago.
He’s not talking about the plate of food he ordered in front of him.
I reach for my glass of orange juice, taking a swig for a much-needed distraction. “Were you hanging outside my apartment this morning when you called?” I ask.
“Something like that,” he answers cryptically, and takes a bite of his bacon. “I need a favor.”
“Yeah, sure,” I say with a shrug, and place the half-empty glass on the table. I retrieve my fork and pick at my food. My stomach is filled with butterflies. What could he possibly need from me?
“A friend of mine is getting married, and I need a date for his wedding.”
“And you want me to be that date?” I ask.
“I want you to be my fake girlfriend.”
I laugh under my breath. The lines have already blurred, and he wants to continue this little charade between the two of us?