The Director - Renee Rose Page 0,20

off before the toaster dings.”

She glances at the toaster oven. There’s two minutes left.

“I thought men were supposed to be proud about taking a long time... not a short time.” Her voice is thick.

I slide my fingers under the little pajama shorts and brush over her folds. She’s already wet.

Dripping wet.

“That would be me lasting a long time. We’re talking about you getting off.” I sink one finger into her. “I won’t even use my dick. Deal?”

She braces her hands on the slick countertop. “Actually” she looks over her shoulder at me, an imperious expression on her face. “I want your dick.”

I smirk. “Is that so?” I grind my erection against her cushy backside.

“Fingers don’t always work for me,” she confesses.

I flick her shorts down with a swift movement, and they drop to the kitchen floor. In the next second, I have the head of my cock rubbing over her entrance. “Your fingers or mine?”

She draws in a breath as I breach her entrance, gently nudging inside. “Mine,” she confesses.

“I assure you mine are more skilled,” I boast, which may or may not be true. I did manage to coax many orgasms out of her the first time we were together. I push forward until I’m fully seated, then slowly draw back, almost all the way out. She shivers in response. “But I will let you call the shots tonight.”

I pump in and out again slowly, then grip her hips for a series of short, shallow thrusts.

Her breath quickens, fingers flatten on the counter.

I wrap an arm around her waist, so I know her belly is protected and slam in harder and deeper.

She moans, and I cover her mouth with my hand, not that I give a shit if the guys hear us, but she might. I’m not going to embarrass her. I ride her with my hand over her mouth then loosen my hold and slide it down her throat, lightly caging her there.

“I think, though, kotyonok, that you prefer when I’m in charge.”

She pussy squeezes my cock, even as she shakes her head no.

I slide my hand down lower, to her breast, where I pluck her nipple.

Her breaths become sobs. I keep traveling lower, settling the pad of my index finger over the little nubbin of her clit.

“You like my fingers now, kitten?”

“Ung.” She makes a needy sound.

I glance at the timer on the toaster oven. I’m running out of time. I rub a little harder.

She cries out.

“You want it harder, prekrasnyy?”

She arches more, pushing back at me. I take it as a yes.

I abandon her clit to the fingers of both hands around her hips and fuck her hard, my loins slapping against her pale ass, filling the kitchen with the sound of sex.

My balls tighten. Thighs shake. I could come.

The timer’s almost on zero. “Come for me, kitten.” I close my eyes and let myself succumb to the pleasure of being inside her—how incredibly juicy and snug the fit is, how forbidden it feels with her hating me, here as my prisoner. How right.

I lose control and plunge deep to come. The moment I do, she spasms around my dick, milking it for my cum, orgasming in perfect concert with me, like our bodies were meant for each other. Like we can only come together.

“That’s it, beautiful.” I rub her clit again, slowly now.

The timer dings.

I kiss her neck and ease out, grabbing a couple napkins to clean us up.

She sobs out her breath, dropping to her forearms on the counter, like she’s not capable of standing.

“Are you light-headed, kotyonok?” I clean her with the napkin.

She draws in a long slow breath. “I’m okay.”

I throw away the napkins and pick up her pajama shorts from the floor, crouching down to help her step into them.

She steadies herself with a hand on my head. After the shorts are up, I nip, then plant a kiss between her legs, lifting my gaze to hers.

She releases my head and takes a step back. She might let me satisfy her, but post-coital intimacy is still not on the table.

I get up and wash my hands then pull the tray out of the toaster oven and slide the warm perogies onto a plate. “If I had to pick a favorite Russian food, it would be these.” I tell her, offering the plate. “Try one.”

She reaches for it then stops herself. “With my fingers or a fork?”

I pick it up with my fingers and hold it to her lips. “Who cares?” I