upset with me. He’d want more of me. He’d want to strip my clothes off in a flurry and lay me back, spreading my legs and revealing parts of myself that I haven’t shown in months—no, years.
I know in my heart that he must do a good job in bed. You can tell by the way a man holds himself, and someone like Matvei has a certain kind of pride that I know would translate well with his head between my legs.
He’d split me with his fingers and command me with his tongue, flicking over every sensitive place he could reach. I’d look down between my legs to see him eagerly and hungrily working me over, tongue flat against me as he rolled circles over the nub just above my center.
And when he was satisfied with that, with making me come from just his mouth, I know that he’d want to conquer me with even more. He’d fill me and fuck me like he owned every part of my body. Those eyes would practically glow with pride, with the joy of taking something and taming it.
Thinking these thoughts, I can’t help myself. My fingers slip between my legs and I run them over the center of my panties, hissing as I feel myself growing wetter. I imagine more of him, the way his body would move on top of me, the speed and power with which he’d thrust. I can feel every sensation, every connection of our skin and brushing of our lips in my mind’s eye as he finally kisses me.
But just like before, he’d dominate my mouth as well, battling my tongue for power. I’d put up a fight, but in the end, I’d concede, climaxing around him as he sucked on my bottom lip and snapped his hips forward, burying himself into me—deeper, deeper, deeper.
There is no choice but to concede.
“Fuck,” I whimper, pulling my panties to the side and pressing my fingers at my center. I grind down on them, back arching as I bite down on my lip. I can’t be too loud, but it’s hard when I imagine that dark, deadly man making me feel nothing but utter and insatiable pleasure.
I hook my fingertips inside of me and find the spot craving release. Stroking in and out, gnawing my cheek to stop from gasping, as I get closer and closer, until …
Until there’s a knock at the door.
Shit. Flushed with embarrassment, I pull my hands out from under the covers and sit upright. Matvei steps into the room, the light from the hallway spilling inside as well.
“Did I wake you?” he asks quietly.
“No,” I admit, trying not to sound out of breath. “I just laid down to sleep. Do you need something?”
“I want to hear how Nikolas is doing.”
I swallow past my suddenly dry mouth. “He’s, uh… he’s doing good. Sometimes he gets really upset and doesn’t know how to use his words. Sometimes he thinks about his parents and cries again. But all in all, he’s not as shut down as he used to be. I think.”
I’ve noticed a real change in Nikolas’ behavior, thank God. I was afraid that he was never going to stop crying, but in the past few weeks that I’ve worked at Matvei’s house, he’s starting to open up. Just tiny bits—a smile here, a flash in his eyes there—but it’s progress. Tiny, incremental progress.
“I’m glad to hear that.”
Matvei doesn’t say anything for a brief second, and I worry that he’s upset. He approaches my bed, and all my intense fantasies from earlier come flooding back. What is he doing? Rather than reaching for me, he grabs my agenda from my desk and writes something down.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“I don’t want you to forget Nikolas’ appointment with his therapist that’s coming up.”
I glance down at the paper and see that he’s put it right under the time that I’ve already scheduled for. I nod, fighting back my slight annoyance. I know that he said to keep an open schedule, but it’s hard to adjust to not having things planned out. The disorder practically makes me itch.
“I’ll let you get back to your sleep,” he says. Without another word, Matvei walks out of the room and closes the door behind him.
I flop back on the bed and let out a long sigh, groaning. I need to get real. I can’t seriously consider this man attractive after everything. I’ve always prided myself on being a rational, levelheaded person. It doesn’t