Her eyes meet mine as the orgasm rolls over and through me, lighting up every damn cell in my body, and I hold her stare, letting her see this side of me, exposing myself to her like I normally wouldn’t do for anyone. By the time I’m empty, I’m gasping and my fucking ears are ringing. I keep my hand on my dick, growing soft while I catch my breath and get a hold of myself.
“Fucking hell,” I mutter, giving her a wink before rinsing myself off and then washing my hair and the light beard I’ve been sporting all winter. By the time I turn off the water, I’m feeling a hell of a lot better.
“I can’t believe you did that,” she whispers, back to avoiding my eyes, her face still as red as her sweater.
With the towel wrapped around my waist, I walk to stand in front of her, reaching down to hook a finger under her chin and force her face up to mine. Her breath hitches as I watch her pupils expand with her desire.
“It sure didn’t look like you were hating the show,lisichka.” I run my thumb over her full, bottom lip, smirking at the sigh she gives. “If you ever want me to help you get rid of all that sexual frustration, you just let me know.”
I step back, giving her a wink before dropping the towel and getting dressed. She stubbornly juts her chin out and stares at the wall until I’m fully clothed and my cock is safely concealed.
“I need to piss,” I say, biting back a laugh when she turns to me with her eyes even wider than before. “Relax. Go downstairs and feed your cat.”
“Aren’t you worried about me running?”
Her sarcastic tone makes me want to bend her over my lap and smack her ass until it’s as red as her sweater, but I don’t. Instead I say, “You won’t have enough time to get far. I could easily catch you, and believe me when I say you won’t like it if I do.”
I watch her slender throat move as she swallows. “Would you hurt me?”
“No more than you’d want me to,” I say, giving her another wink. Her reaction isn’t what I’m expecting. Instead of disgust or anger or fear even, there’s a quick flash of pure, raw desire before she clamps it down and storms out of the bathroom. Interesting. Before I think too much about it and end up so hard I can’t piss, I hurry up and use the bathroom and then follow her downstairs.
She’s just finishing up with her scraggily-looking cat when I walk in and start to pull out ingredients for blueberry pancakes. I grab a package of bacon and a skillet and hand them to her. “Make yourself useful.”
She looks like she wants to argue, but she doesn’t. She just grabs the stuff and gets started on cooking the bacon. I watch her fill the skillet with as much bacon as will fit and bite back the laugh I want to give. I’ve dated women who can barely clean a plate, always complaining about not wanting to put on weight or starting whatever nonsense diet is making the rounds at the time. It’s refreshing to see someone who just eats what they want. I don’t know where the fuck she puts it all, but it’s nice to see.
We work in silence, and I’m surprised that it doesn’t feel awkward. I’m not used to having someone in my home, and I find myself wanting to ask her a million questions about herself, which is not something I’m prone to do. Once everything is cooked, we sit back down at the table, and I watch as she loads her pancakes with more butter and syrup than can possibly be healthy.
“Do you have any chocolate milk?” she asks while cutting into her huge mountain of sugar.
“No.”
“That’s too bad.”
“I’m thirty-six years old. I don’t keep chocolate milk on hand.”
“You think you have to stop drinking tasty things because you’re getting old?”
I point my knife at her. “I’m not old.”
She hides her grin with another huge bite.
“I’m just old enough to know that you can’t live off sugar and expect to thrive. It’s called taking care of yourself and eating a well-balanced diet. Maybe you should try it sometime.”
She shrugs and takes a bite of bacon. “You only live once, Aleksandr.”
“Exactly, and I’d like to enjoy the one life I have with some sort of vitality and good health. Besides, shouldn’t you take better care of yourself because of your condition.”
“It’s asthma, not diabetes,” she says with a laugh.
“Have you had it your whole life?”
“Yeah, I can keep it under control most of the time, but sometimes if I get really stressed or worried it’ll flare up.”
Something dark seems to flash through her eyes, but she takes another bite and seems to push whatever memory it was away as she makes quick work of finishing her plate in what has to be a fucking world record. It reminds me of how I’d watched her eat that humungous plate of food at the mall yesterday. I swear she must’ve downed it in fifteen minutes. I’ve never seen anything like it.
“Have you ever tried breathing in between bites?”
“Now who’s being alisichka?” she asks.