Kinky(16)

‘So,’ he says.

‘So, you’re wearing too many clothes. And I’m getting cold up here.’

‘Cold? Oh, that’s not good.’ He shimmies back up to me, clasping his hands together in the small of my back, leaning his forehead against mine. ‘I don’t like cold.’

Behind me, I can feel his hands waggling about, tackling the condom wrapper. It’s not going to do much good unless those jeans come down, though, so I reach towards his belt buckle. Except there’s a problem here – he has more than one. He is wearing about five skinny leather belts of different designs, all interlinked and looped around each other. I sigh, lips brushing his.

‘Why so many belts?’

‘I don’t want to pack them.’

‘Oh right.’ One down, the other four are quick enough to unbuckle. They fall aside like a gateway of tooled leather, allowing me to concentrate on unbuttoning his fly. Here it comes. The exertion causes me to pant slightly, my hot breath mingling with his. I prepare myself to push down the jeans then the underpants – but there are no underpants. An unexpected cock emerges from the disintegrating denim, causing me to squeal inelegantly.

‘You bad, bad man!’ I exclaim with a delighted laugh. ‘No pants!’

‘OK, you got me,’ he said softly. ‘When I come here, I have plan to fuck you. I think maybe I can be lucky so I don’t put on them.’

‘You didn’t think about the condoms though?’ I put a hand on his cock, running my fingertips gently up the shaft, admiring its firmness.

‘I don’t want to be too hopeful. In Russia we believe in fate.’

His hands unclasp and he brings the unwrapped condom around, removing my fingers so he can skin it on.

‘So, I am ready,’ he whispers. ‘You are ready?’ He answers his own question by fingering my pussy, gathering my wetness as evidence.

‘I’m ready.’

‘I know.’ He pulls my thighs apart and around his waist again, takes his cock in hand and guides it to my willing slit, rubbing it around in my juices before surging forward.

I cry out and hang on for dear life around his neck, adjusting to the strange fullness, something I have not felt for some time.

He keeps one arm anchored around my waist while he uses his other hand to stroke my clit, holding himself heroically still for a moment.

He kisses me. ‘Feels good?’ he asks.

‘Oh. You don’t need to ask. Yes.’

‘OK. Hold tight.’

I cling like a spider monkey while he shunts back and forth, building up speed. The cabinet rattles underneath me, then it begins to rock, but I couldn’t care less, every part of me focused on the friction inside me. He angles himself perfectly and crosses my sweetest spot, keeping the pressure on my clit at the same time. In a fog of exquisite, tormenting sensation I feel the burn at the pit of my stomach that signals the first steps on the stairway to orgasm.

‘Oh, yes, hard, do it hard,’ I mutter in delirium, wanting to spur him to his own. He slams the cabinet into the wall, thrusting like a madman, holding me in a tense armlock. My end is near, the sensation rising and spreading. I bury my face in his neck and start to whimper.

He says something totally unintelligible but wildly sexy-sounding – presumably in Russian – and that’s what finally gets me there, bucking and writhing against him while he utters god-knows-what into my ear.

God-knows-what gets louder and more emphatic, almost vengeful in tone, until it breaks down into a formless roar and he makes his final blinding thrusts before holding himself still inside, head thrown back, beautiful throat exposed, hands gripping me to the point of bruising.

Christ. He’s completely taken me. One night, one fuck, and I’m in love.

This wasn’t part of the plan.

Help.





Chapter Four



I still have no idea how I made it through the day without getting fired.

I bluffed through the campaign meeting with the rapidly extemporised slogan ‘What the Nose Knows’ – madly, the account manager loved it. No accounting for advertising taste, obviously. Nobody commented on the smudgy black line on the paintwork behind the filing cabinet either. A few people noticed the dark circles under my eyes, especially Anton, but I put that down to staying up all night working on the campaign.

At the coffee shop around the corner, he props me up with a large macchiato after work and quizzes me on some aspects of my story that he feels don’t add up.

‘So were you in the office when there was that security alert?’ he asks, biting off the end of his biscotti.

‘Security alert?’

‘Yeah, broken window on the ground floor at the back. Apparently, the alarms were activated but the police never showed up. Nobody can get hold of Whatsisname the night watchman.’