As he yanked up his pants, I pulled the sheet over me. Unless I was still dreaming, I was pretty sure I’d just been grinding this man’s face while deep-throating him.
Who the hell am I tonight? When Sevastyan hissed as he tucked that beautiful semihard shaft back in his pants, my traitorous mind thought: Whoever she is, I can’t wait to be her again.
I braced for a flood of anxiety. Instead, my body purred with satisfaction.
“That shouldn’t have happened.” He looked disgusted again—but this time with himself.
There were myriad emotions he should be feeling right now. Confusion, wonder, awe. Not disgust.
I was dazed, but in a good way, like I’d just defeated a fever and had come out stronger for it. I was different. I knew all about sex, but I’d never felt the power of it—the power of knowing that a man who obviously worshipped control hadn’t been able to control his reactions to me. Just as my own had been uncontrollable.
He searched my face, studying my expression. For what? Disgust to match his? Regret?
The fear he’d faltered to deliver?
The worse he appeared to feel about this, the more comfortable I grew. I guessed I was contrary like that. Joke him if he couldn’t take a f**k.
“So is this the part where you get mad and tell me to cover myself?” For good measure, I let the sheet drop as I stretched my arms above my head. To remind him of the br**sts he’d just sucked and the ni**les he wanted to pierce.
He swiped a palm over his face. “This was a mistake.”
“Of course it wasn’t. What we did was amazing.” In this bed, my dream man had just rocked my world, making me come harder than ever before—three times—and my bl*w j*b hadn’t been too shabby either. I was beginning to think I was a born fellatrix.
Out the window, I spied a glorious sight. The moon shone over the ocean. The ocean! My vacation was off to a promising start.
He sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees. “It made you happy, to be used by me?”
Perhaps not so promising. I raised my brows with amusement. “I orgasmed three times; you did once. Who’s using whom, Siberian?”
His lips parted in surprise. Well, that shut him up.
Tonight I’d realized something. I’d always thought that when I lost my virginity, I would be ceding something. Now I comprehended that with a man like Sevastyan, I’d be gaining something.
Pleasure to boggle my brain and memories to last my lifetime.
My entire mind-set about the deed was evolving. Insight: if a guy I had sex with ever carved a notch into his bedpost, I’d tell him to carve one into mine too—and then to go make me a f**king sammich.
Sevastyan said, “This was an indiscretion that must never be repeated.”
“Because I’m taboo?” I frowned as a thought struck me. “Tonight wouldn’t, like, get you killed by Kovalev or anything. Right?”
“Of course not. He’s not a murderous tyrant.”
“Then what is it?”
“I took advantage of his daughter. I can scarcely believe I’ve touched you.” In the moonlight, I could see color tinting his cheekbones as he muttered, “Struck you.”
“I ended up loving every second of what we did.” I, Natalie Porter, had gotten my rocks off while being spanked. And I was going to roll with it.
I felt like a phone that had downloaded a new platform, but never been reset. When I’d orgasmed with him, I’d blipped, I’d blinked, and now I was ramped up.
He’d reset me, tweaking how I would feel about sex for the rest of my life. “Sevastyan, don’t turn a positive into a negative.” Joke him, joke him . . .
He faced me with a suspicious expression. “You were tight. Very much so. Surely you’re not a virgin.”
With a defiant look, I shrugged. “Guess you didn’t find out everything about me.”
He bit out a dumbfounded “Blyad’!” The word meant whore, but Russians said it like we might say Oh, f**k!