Chapter 22

Twenty-Two

K irill

There's a point to this week, alone, with my wife. The point is that I need the time to get to know her, and I need her to know me.

Because the fact of the matter is that I'm leaving for America soon. I don't want to leave her behind.

No, I can't leave her behind. I won't.

I'm not sure that if I did, there would be anything left of her to return to.

I also don't want to take her to her home country if she's determined to slip away from me, to escape. It would be much easier for her to wander into a police station, and claim that she's been stolen in America, than it would in Russia. In Russia, the authorities would simply call myself or Ilya, and she would be returned, no harm, no foul. In America, there would undoubtedly be costly questions. Of course, she wouldn't succeed in shaking me from her life, even in her home country. But I work hard for my money, and I don't wish to part with it simply because my wife got it in her head that she could break the bonds that tie us.

So, there is a point to this week.

One I intend to see through to success.

If there is a time to win my wife's heart, it is now.

She plucks another sour key from the bowl of candy she poured when she discovered it in the kitchen, setting it on her tongue to close her full lips around the treat. My already hard dick hardens as I watch the way she sucks, still holding the ring between delicate thumb and finger. Her honey-colored eyes are wide, and her red hair is twisted into a messy knot on the top of her head. She's wearing a tank top and no bra with a sweater that hangs open in the front, and a pair of low, loose sweats. With the flashing lights of the movie illuminating her makeup free face, she's exquisite.

But, fuck, if I have to watch her eat another one of those candies, my dick is going to explode. As it is, I've been hard for the past two days, straight. I'm surprised my poor balls aren't fucking blue.

And why doesn't she chew the goddamn candy like a normal person?

Her lips part and her tongue slides down the shaft of the key, dipping into the hole. Fuuuck .

On the screen, ominous music plays. The thriller had been my idea. I'd thought she'd cuddle into me. She's cuddling, all right. A fucking pillow.

I'm going to die.

I know what's coming, even though I haven't seen the movie. The bad guy is about to find the rather stupid broad on-screen. Because, of course, she thinks it's smart to hide in the closet.

My wife pulls the key from between sugared lips with a pop, eyes wide, as the on-screen drama crests. And I act.

My hand grips her thigh as I say loudly, "Gotcha."

I don't expect the reaction I get. Not only does she scream, but she throws her bowl. Candies fly, falling to the bed with soft thuds as she practically leaps into my lap. I'm laughing as my arms come around her, holding her in place even as she wiggles. The hard pipe of my arousal digs desperately hopeful into the soft, round swell of her ass. But she hasn't seemed to notice that quite yet, as her fear shifts to anger.

Angling sideways, I'm forced to dodge her swat as she reprimands, "That wasn't nice!"

"Maybe not. But it was funny."

"I almost died. You almost killed me. By heart failure."

"You're very dramatic." I tighten my hold on her when she starts to push away from me.

"Kirill." She scolds me like I am a child. "I have to pick up the candy."

"What you have to do is stay right where you are." I rock my hips into her ass again, loving the little gasp that falls from her lips when she finally notices my erection. On the screen, the woman fights the bad guy.

I thrust up again. If I keep this up, the friction is going to get me off like I'm fifteen, and dry humping the daughter of the housekeeper.

I should stop, save my pride, but I don't. Can't.

Dropping my lips to the bare skin of her shoulder that's been exposed by the fallen sweater, I revel in the gooseflesh the prickle of my beard draws to the surface. She shivers in my arms.

"What are you doing?" Her voice is husky.

I swear, my dick weeps.

"Holding my wife."

"Mmm," she moans, and then a throaty, "Kirill," nearly sends me over the edge.

Clinging to the shards of my control, I tighten my hold around her small frame. Then I test that control as I part my lips to press an open-mouthed kiss against the curve, where neck meets shoulder. Her head falls back, granting me more access. A silent invitation I don't offer her a moment to take back. My hips thrust, the ridge of my dick sliding into the crease of her ass allowed by the thin sweats she wears. I'm fucking thankful at this point, that under my own sweats, I'm not wearing briefs. There's nothing to withhold the friction I seek now, even though I desperately want to be inside her.

The temptation of her wet warmth calls to me like a fucking siren to a sailor. I want to dive into the ocean of her, never to return to this life again.

With another strangled moan, she arches back against me for the first time, as though seeking me just as I seek her. And then she squeezes her legs together, desperate for a relief only I can give her.

And, hell, I want to give it to her.

I don't ask permission as I scrub my palm down her belly to the band of her sweats, slipping inside before she's even realized what I've done. Her legs fall open when I cup her hot pussy over her panties, palming the bud of her clit with enough pressure to call another moan from the depths of her.

It's the sweetest melody.

Cum leaks from my tip. I haven't been this aroused in my life.

Or maybe it's just because I've wanted her for so long, and haven't had her. There's only so much relief a man gets from his hand in the shower.

Her breath shudders and she rolls her hips, the ridge of my dick sliding between the crease of her ass again and again.

Fuck, I'm gonna blow.

Suddenly, the desire to have her coming with me is fierce. It's the only thing that matters. Her shattering as I erupt.

If I can't have it with my dick buried inside her soft, tight, hot cunt?—

My thoughts fracture.

Shoving the soaked, thin strip of her panties to the side, I push two fingers knuckle deep into her pussy—shocked by how tight she squeezes me. She looses a startled, aroused scream, but I've already begun to pump my fingers into her channel, my palm connecting with her swollen clit on every thrust. When the thrust of my hips increases, the motions becoming desperate, the tempo of my fingers in her sweet cunt increases to match.

It's frantic. Raw. Brutal.

Exactly how I ache to fuck her.

"Kirill—" she gasps, pussy clenching around my fingers as I grit, "Come for me, wife."

The sound she makes. Fucking hell. Heaven.

She shatters around my fingers.

I come in my pants with a grunt I bury into the soft skin of her throat. Against my lips, her pulse is a wild thing. Her breathing is much more dysregulated than my own. I suspect it's not so much to do with her orgasm, as it has to do with the war her mind wages against the pleasure of her body.

I shift my fingers in her pussy, and she hisses in a sharp breath, her body jolting against mine. Her words are small as she begs, "Please stop."

"Don't do that." My voice is the opposite to hers. Where hers is soft and pleading, mine is a rough command.

"Don't do what?"

I don't pull my fingers from between her legs. "Don't pull away from me. Don't act like what we just did, what we gave each other, is wrong."

"Please." She shifts her hips again, but this time her hands wrap around my wrist to push me from where I'm still knuckle deep inside her wet warmth. "It—it's hurting."

I'd been about to fight her. To finger fuck another orgasm from her wet cunt just to prove a point, but those words, so hesitant, so unsure, so pleading —they stop me. Again, I'm reminded of how I'd suspected that maybe my little wife is more innocent than I'd thought when I'd kissed her that first time. It had been as though she hadn't known how to kiss. But she'd learned quick enough, I figured maybe she just hadn't been kissed by a man who was as man as me. Them choir boys, with their soft hands and timid touches, have nothing on the hellfire that rages inside my veins when it comes to possessing this woman.

Now, though. Those words so softly spoken, like a prayer, hit me like a bullet to my tarry heart.

Slowly, so as not to hurt her, I slide my fingers from the heat of her.

My heart drums in my chest as I lift them. And that's when I see it, illuminated in the flickering light of the movie that plays, mixed in the shimmering evidence of her arousal—is ribbons of diluted red.

Proof of her innocence.

The beast inside me rages.