I opened my mouth to say something, but a single look from him erased the thought.
He tipped his head toward the bed. “Lie down. Face up. Grab the headboard.”
My body moved before my mind caught up. I shimmied backward on the cold sheets and slid up until the steel headboard pressed against my skull. I reached up, curled my hands around the icy bars. My arms trembled—not from the effort but from how exposed I was.
Luka circled the bed, watching me from every angle, letting the silent seconds hollow me out. “Legs up. Spread them.”
I drew my knees up and parted them wide, feet planted on the mattress. My thighs trembled as I held the position.
He stopped at the foot of the bed. “You want rope?” he asked quietly. “Then hold still. Show me I don’t need it.”
I tightened my grip on the steel bars and didn’t move. The urge to shift—to close my legs, to cover myself—pulled hard. I ignored it.
Luka climbed onto the bed, knees braced apart, his weight dipping the mattress. He ran his palm up the inside of my thigh. The touch was light, almost absent, but it made my stomach jump. He pushed my legs open wider.
I held them there.
He bent over me and paused, close enough that his breath touched me—warm, slow, deliberate. No hands. No mouth. Just the heat of him hovering. The seconds stretched. The ache built, restless, chasing his contact.
“Desperate,” he murmured. “You come in here acting like steel. Then I touch you, and you melt.” The rasp of his stubble grazed the inside of my thigh—not a kiss, just friction—enough to set every nerve on edge. “You want my mouth on this pretty cunt, don’t you?”
I nodded, then managed, “Yes. Please.”
He smiled against my skin. “So polite now. Begging like a good little slut.”
The words lit my brain on fire, hitting harder than the vodka.
His tongue touched down—light, teasing, never landing where I needed it. He exhaled, heat washing over my aching clit. My legs trembled.
“Hold your position,” Luka said. “You move, I stop.”
Every muscle strained, but I held on. He dragged his tongue up the length of me, stopping just short of my clit—then pulled back.
A whimper slipped out of me.
He watched it happen, then leaned in again. This time the stroke was slow, a full, unhurried sweep that left my nerves humming on the edge of overload.
The teasing was over.
He worked me with his mouth like he meant to break me, not soothe me. Not slow, not gentle—every stroke hard, brutal, dragging sensation straight through my core. I jerked at the shock of it, but his hands locked me open, holding me exactly where he wanted me.
There was no rhythm to ease into. No mercy. Just pressure and heat and relentless focus until the ache built, faster than I could contain.
When the orgasm crested, it crashed up from my tailbone and knocked the air from my lungs.
He didn’t let me ride it—didn’t even let me breathe.
Luka held me down and kept going—licking, sucking, driving the sensation sharper and brighter until the aftershocks tipped into a new wave. I screamed, and he only pressed his mouth harder, a low hum against my clit that sent my body spiraling into a second violent contraction.
By the time he finally pulled back, I couldn’t move. Breath wouldn’t line up with my heartbeat. I just lay there, legs splayed, my body twitching through the aftermath in small, helpless spasms.
“What do you say,mila?”
The answer took three tries to force out. “Thank you,” I managed.
He kissed my thigh, slow and hot. “Good girl.” He skimmed his palms up my ribs and over my breasts, kneading life back into my skin, waking every nerve he’d wrung out of me. “You fall apart so beautifully,” he murmured. “I could keep you like this all night.”
He moved to the side of the bed.