Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 94678 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94678 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
It brought me out of my slumbering state, where I was having the best dream of my life, and had me determined to make it a reality.
The results were better than I could have ever imagined, and it is taking everything I have not to pop my eyes open and marvel at the goodness of Mikhail’s post-orgasmic expression.
Is sweat clinging to his top lip? Are the roots of his sex-mused hair damp? Or does he look like a train wreck like I did whenever we messed the sheets?
I’ll never know because I’m not skilled enough to pretend I didn’t love everything we just did if I were to open my eyes.
I can’t let Mikhail know how fast he’s skating back under my skin, or he’ll eat me alive.
Just the way my body is responding to his leg still being wedged between my thighs announces this without prejudice. The coolness against my throbbing clit confirms a large wet patch has formed on the front of my sleeping shorts.
Still, shame doesn’t encroach on me.
The soft material caressing my knee feels just as damp. It proves Mikhail crossed the finish line seconds after me, and the knowledge is thrilling.
“Let me get something to clean you up,” Mikhail murmurs a second before the mattress springs creak, protesting to his shuffle as ruefully as my still-aching clit does.
Even with early-morning sunlight streaming through the window of the owner’s suite, I imagine Mikhail’s steps instead of tracing them.
I plan to work the “I was asleep” ruse to my grave.
Blaming a sleep-deprived head for my actions is better than acknowledging how much my body still craves this man. His smell alone is enough to trickle desire through my veins, so the flutter of his pulse against a sensitive region of my body will always instigate disaster.
When a faucet turning on sounds from the direction of the bathroom, I pop open my eyes. I’m alone, but the thundering of my pulse assures me it won’t be for long.
My first thought is to run like I did last night when the tension became too much. I would if my legs were up for another hundred laps. They’re too shaky for that. I doubt I could stand right now, let alone walk.
My climax wasn’t the longest I’ve had, but it was the most powerful. I couldn’t stop coming, and my throat is raw from the number of screams I had to hold back when Mikhail’s grunts during his release doubled their strength.
As I wait for Mikhail to return from the bathroom, aftercare clearly still a priority for him, my racing heart slows. It beats in a similar rhythm to the throbs of my clit, and it has me confident I’ll make a mistake I can’t take back if I don’t close my eyes right now.
It pains me, but I shut my eyes with barely a second to spare.
With one sense down, the sensitivity of its counterparts increases. I hear Mikhail moving around his room. His footsteps are faint but deliberate. The crack of an elastic waistband has me picturing him removing his stained sleeping pants and replacing them with a fresh pair, and then the sound of nails raking over a scalp instigates images of him dragging his fingers through his sweat-damp locks.
I imagine each precise movement he makes with ease, his after-sex routine second nature to him. He always took care of me like this, but it was compulsory back then because I was in an orgasmic coma and incapable of taking care of myself.
Memories flood my head, but I keep my breathing steady, not wanting to break the illusion that I am asleep.
After pressing a washcloth between my legs, mopping up some of the mess clinging my panties to my skin, Mikhail adjusts the blanket we kicked off when our snuggles became too heated to require outside assistance, tucking me in.
My heart thumps when a gentle touch caresses my forehead. He brushes back a stray lock of hair, his gesture tender. It speaks volumes about the man he has become and how pain can alter your perception but not wholly change you.
The gentleness of his embrace and his sigh when I fail to respond to it has me convinced I broke his heart, not the other way around.
I want to open my eyes, to force him to take the blame for our downfall, but I remain still, savoring the peace he offered when he didn’t recoil from me grinding against his thigh.
I’ve learned the hard way in the past ten years that an orgasm is a gift. It is not a given. So, as much as I want to remind Mikhail that we’re practically strangers because of the actions he took, I can’t.
Instead, I roll away from him, stuff a pillow between my legs as if he hasn’t satisfied my urges, and then count backward from a thousand.