His gaze comes back to mine. “Nothing you need to worry about.”
“I told you to stop treating me like a child,” I say.
“I’m protecting my wife, it’s different,” he counters.
“How?” I ask bewildered.
To that, he says nothing.
“You’re impossible,” I say.
“Yes.”
There’s a pause.
Then his eyes drop to my mouth, and the anger between us changes. It doesn’t disappear. It becomes something else. Something hotter.
He steps closer to the glass, close enough that the steam beads on his chest.
“You’re sore,” he says.
“I know.”
“You should rest.”
“I know that too.”
His eyes darken. “Then why are you looking at me like that?”
Because I want to feel like this body belongs to me, not to every person in this house with an opinion about it. Because last night, he took me apart, and somehow I woke up wanting to know what it feels like when he does it again.
I say none of that. Instead, I open the shower door. Water runs down my breasts and over my stomach. His eyes follow one drop as it slides between my tits.
“Come here,” I say.
For one second, he doesn’t move.
Then he does, stripping quickly. By the time he steps into the shower, his cock is already hard, thick and heavy between us.
The water hits his shoulders, running down his chest, over the scars I touched last night. He looks bigger in here. Closer. The steam makes the room feel too small to hold both of us.
He reaches for me slowly. I go to him before he can finish. His hand catches the back of my neck, and his mouth comes down on mine.
I moan against him, and he backs me against the wet tile. My spine hits the wall, and the heat of the shower presses around us while his body presses into me. His cock rubs against my stomach, hard and slick from the water.
He groans when my fingers close around his cock. The sound makes my knees weak.
I stroke him once, still awkward, still learning, but I know more than I did yesterday. I know how his jaw tightens when I grip him harder. I know how his breathing changes when my thumb moves over the wet head. I know the kind of power that comes from making a man like Yaromir Volkov lose control by inches.
His mouth leaves mine and moves to my neck. “Careful,” he says.
I almost laugh. “You always say that.”
“You never listen.”
I stroke him again. His hand slams against the tile beside my head. The sound makes heat rush between my thighs.
He looks down at me, eyes dark and dangerous. “You like pushing me,” he says.