“I’m pretty wet,” she says, holding her fingers up for inspection.
I bring her hand to my lips and suck her juice.
Her eyes widen. “That was filthy.” She looks scandalized and titillated at the same time.
I hand her a condom. “Put it on and take me inside your body. I am your servant in this.”
Her expression is studious and intense as she opens the package and rolls the condom down over my aching flesh. Even that small, innocuous touch makes me flinch. My hands curl into the comforter and I restrain myself from flipping her over and pounding into her like an animal, like a boy with no finesse.
My cock looks obscene under the nearly clear rubber of the condom. The head is nearly purple and hugely engorged, but Naomi does not hesitate. Taking me in one hand and pressing her palm against my chest with the other, she rises on her knees and positions my cock at her wet entrance. She eases the tip in. My eyes are riveted on our connected flesh. Slowly, she descends and it feels . . . as if I am dying. Her wet, hot cunt opens and embraces me. I may never rise from this bed.
“Is this good, Vasily?” she asks, a little breathless, a little unsure.
“Too good,” I answer. “I have never felt better in the whole of my life.”
She leans forward, bracing herself on my chest. “Is my weight too much? I don’t want to touch the sheets, but your body is okay.”
Again, I swallow an inappropriate laugh. “Nyet. Press harder. I like it rough,” I admit. When she doesn’t flee, I tell her, “Dig in with your claws. Mark me with your teeth. Make me yours, Naomi. Make me yours.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
NAOMI
The last time I had sex was nothing like this.
Before, the boy pushed into me and pressed his weight on top of me, until our skin was touching everywhere. He sweated and grunted and got germs all over me. It was a horrible memory, and turned me off of sex for good.
Or so I’d thought. But everything with Vasily is different. I don’t mind when his skin touches mine. I don’t mind when his mouth touches my mouth and our saliva mixes. I don’t even mind when his penis, sheathed in latex so he won’t get semen on me, pushes and pushes into me so hard that it hurts a little. He’s very big and the position we’re in doesn’t really allow me time to get used to his girth. One moment he’s at my entrance, and the next, he’s in me so deep that I’m aching inside and things are stretching.
A small whimper escapes my throat and I wiggle on top of him a little, trying to get comfortable. My position is precarious; the only place I can put my hands is on his chest, otherwise I will be touching the filthy blankets. My knees are pressing onto them as it is; I’ll have to shower once we’re done. I probably shouldn’t be thinking about the bed, but I’m trying to distract myself from the enormous wedge that is Vasily’s penis pushing inside of me and making all of my body stretch in response.
“How does it feel, Naomi?” Vasily’s voice is thick with his accent, a sure sign he’s distracted. His eyes are sealed shut, though, and his hands clutch at my waist to hold me in place.
“Why are your eyes closed?”
“You feel too good. I am trying to keep control. It is . . . difficult for me.” He presses his forehead to mine. “I do not wish to hurt you.”
Oh. I consider this with another test wiggle. “Your penis is stretching my vagina several inches and causing slight discomfort. You might be so long that you’re hitting my cervix, but I’m not entirely sure what that would feel like.”
In response to this, he groans as if pained. “Keep talking, Naomi,” he rasps. “Tell me more.”
I study his face, looking for cues. I’m not sure if he’s having fun with sticking his penis inside me. I was wet from the excitement of it, but now that he’s in me, I’m not sure that I’m still enjoying things. I feel . . . crammed full.
And his face is tight, his eyes shut, his lips drawn back in a rather feral expression. I’d say he looks upset, but I’m a poor judge of these things. He’s in danger of losing control, he says. Am I doing something wrong? I’ve studied sex a great deal and I don’t want to seem like an inexperienced idiot. I debate with myself, and then decide to show Vasily just how much I know.
“The largest penis on record was thirteen and a half inches and over six inches in circumference,” I tell him. “I don’t think you’re quite that big but you’re definitely in a top percentile. You feel extremely large inside me.” I shift my hips a little, still trying to get comfortable.
“Da, like that,” Vasily hisses and his hands tug at my hips, lifting them, and then thrusting me back down on his penis. The length of him pushes in and out, causing an intense amount of friction between our bodies.
A noise escapes my throat that sounds embarrassingly like a squeal, and his breath hisses out again, repeating the motion. My palms dig into his chest and I try to move my hips with his hands, since it’s obvious that’s what he wants.
His big penis pushes into me again, his movements jerky and harsh, and the initial discomfort I felt from his entrance is going away. “My vaginal walls must be stretched to accommodate you now,” I tell him. “A vagina can stretch because the walls are pleated like an accordion. I imagine my pleats are rather straightened at the moment—”
He thrusts into me again. This time, I gasp and slam my palms against his chest, startled by the rough movement. He keeps distracting me every time I try to talk, and it’s starting to annoy me. I slap a hand on his chest in irritation. “Are you listening to me, Vasily?”
“I hear every word, Naomi. Your sweet lips move like a temptress, and your voice fills my ears as a siren’s. Your words are making my cock ache for you,” he says, and he opens his eyes and lifts his head to gaze down at our bodies. As he watches, he lifts my hips again and slides me back down on his length. “Does that feel good, Naomi?”
His sweet words are easing my irritation. “I’m not sure. It doesn’t hurt anymore.”
He shifts on top of me. “If it was good, you would tell me. Am I hitting your G-spot?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never hit my G-spot.” But now I’m curious. “How can you tell if it’s being triggered?”
“You would know,” he tells me and holds me as he sits up, his muscles flexing. He gets to his feet, holding me in place, and I cling to his neck. “Wrap your legs around me, Naomi.” I feel vulnerable as he moves, as I feel one step from falling off of him, but he’s a man with a purpose. One hand clasps my back and I clench my legs tight around him.
“W-what are you doing?”
He doesn’t answer me, just leans over and rips the blankets and sheets off of the bed. I hold on to him like a spider monkey, wondering at the strength he must have to hold me like this. When he’s satisfied, he looks at me again, and straightens. “I am going to put you on the bed, Naomi—”
“No,” I say. “It’s gross! Think of the germs—”
He doesn’t listen, just pushes me down onto the mattress and then his weight is on me, his big body covering my own. He’s still adjusting things, and grabs a pillow—a filthy, filthy pillow—and shoves it under my hips.
“Vasily, I’m touching the bed,” I whimper, and slam a hand against his chest. “I don’t like this.”
He ignores my protests and begins to thrust into me again, his movements slower and more precise, and he watches my face to see my reaction. When I’m still making distressed whimpers of unhappiness, he leans in—which causes his penis to push even deeper inside me—and whispers, “I read a study where the mattress is the cleanest part of the bed.”
“It . . . it is?” His hips swivel against mine.
“Da,” he growls, and his hand goes to the back of one of my legs, pushing it backward until my knee is almost pressed to the mattress. It tilts my hips even more. His mouth nuzzles mine, a surprisingly tender gesture given his savage movements. “It is always covered, you see. No one ever lays directly on mattress.”
This has a curious sense of logi
c to it, and some of my panic subsides. “I’ve never heard—” I lose track of what I was saying as his cock pushes into me again and everything feels different. Intense. Like I stuck my finger in a light socket. “What was that?”
“That was G-spot,” he says, voice thick. “Do you want to feel it again?”
“I’m not sure.”
“That is not a no,” he tells me, and rolls his hips as he thrusts again. His penis saws into me at a peculiar angle, and it seems to rub up against something inside me that jolts with nerve endings when he does. I whimper again and my nails dig into him. “It’s so . . . much.”
He growls low in his throat, like the wolf he claims to be. “Show me,” he says, brushing his lips over mine. “Show me how much you are feeling.” And he begins to stroke into me again, picking up a rhythm, and every motion seems to rub against my G-spot in a way that is so intense it’s almost frightening—if it weren’t for the fact that my legs were twitching and my entire body was lighting up in response.
I want to share this intensity with him, but I don’t know how.
Mark me with your teeth. Make me yours, Naomi. Make me yours.
The words roll through my mind, and I immediately discard them. He knows I need people to be literal with me, because I don’t understand metaphors. But he’s watching me so close, his eyes glittering, and he pushes into me hard again.
Something inside me snaps.
I reach out and slap him across the face.
We’re both stunned for a minute, and I worry that he’s going to get angry. Did I misinterpret him? But he only pushes down and captures my mouth in a savage kiss that ravages my lips and tongue and leaves me breathless. If he didn’t like my slap, he’s not indicating it. Mark me with your teeth, he told me earlier. Make me yours.
I am. He’s mine.
Vasily wants me to be rough with him. He’s definitely not being gentle with me, and it’s odd, but I kind of like how brutal he is. He’s not hurting me, but he’s not tender, either. His thrusts begin to move faster, his hips pistoning against my own on the bed, and the wild sensations continue to build inside me. I don’t know how to handle them—this is like the orgasms he gave me before, but deeper, more intense. He needs the intense, too, I think. My hands slap at his chest again, lightly, and then I dig my nails into his skin and rake them down his chest.
He groans, his nostrils flaring. “Yes, Naomi. Keep. Hurting. Me.”
His movements are going even faster, and he’s now fucking me so hard we might slide off the bed. But I don’t care—I’m getting into this. I want to hurt Vasily to show him how intense it feels to have him inside me, rubbing me in that spot that sets everything else on fire. My mind isn’t working clearly, or I’d tell him more sex facts. Instead, I dig my fingernails viciously into his nipple and pinch at his smooth, tanned skin. I want to bite him but he’s leaning too far up. All I can do is slap and scratch and hiss at him in frustration as he continues to savagely pound me across the bed, hammering into that spot that’s making my entire body tight and tense.
I click my teeth at him, my own face feral with need, and he gets what I seem to want. He leans in and his mouth takes mine again, but when he pulls away, I bite down, hard, on his lower lip.
He groans and stiffens over me, and his brutal rhythm loses its cadence. “Don’t stop yet,” I yell in his ear. “I need to come!”
“Then come,” he snarls at me, and his fingers dig into my thigh as he brutally thrusts harder. It’s like he’s trying to go from my vagina to my sternum with each motion, but it feels better than anything I’ve ever felt.
Something elusive and delicious is building inside me and I focus on that, holding on to his neck and biting on his skin everywhere I can—his collarbones, his shoulder, his ear, his jaw, the tendons in his throat. “Not yet,” I tell him as I bite, and he continues to pound into me. “Not yet,” I tell him with each thrust, my voice growing louder as my pleasure intensifies. “Not yet!” I scream in his ear as I dig my nails into the dip of his shoulder and his movements grow even more ragged, more jerky, more violent with need. I slap at him wildly, fascinated by the growls I get in response, and how it makes him even more erratic.
And then it is there, blooming inside me like a supernova, and I scream, “Right there,” in Vasily’s ear even as I lock my body around him and dig my nails in, wanting to drag the moment out because it’s so good, and so overwhelming. I clench and clench and clench and it just goes on and on like my entire body has given itself over to this impossibly pleasurable feeling, and I begin to cry because it’s so intense, I can’t even describe it. Over me, Vasily shudders and mutters my name in a thick voice, but I’m not paying attention if he’s coming or not, because little stars are dancing in the corners of my vision, and I watch them in dreamy bliss.
That was so good.
Something heavy collapses on top of me, and it’s Vasily’s sweaty body. He leans in and nuzzles me again, curiously tender after our savage lovemaking.
I squeal as his skin slides against my own, my revulsion for bodily fluids taking over again. “Off,” I yell, slapping at his skin again. “Vasily, you’re sweating on me!”
He obediently rolls off of me onto the side of the bed, lying there and panting, but his hand continues to clutch my arm, as if he needs to make sure I’m still there next to him.
That’s better, at least. I relax and return to my dreamy spiral of pleasure, my thoughts mellow. Postcoital endorphins, I tell myself. These are nice. “So what was that study about mattresses?” I tell Vasily.
“I lied,” he says slowly, eyes closed as if in contemplation. “Thought I would distract you.”
With a shriek, I get off the bed. He’s been grinding me into a mattress filled with bacteria? I can practically feel my body covered in staphylococcus and dust mites. “I hate you!”
“Nyet, you like me.” He’s smiling and he reaches out for me. His skin is livid with welts from where I got carried away, but he looks content. “Come back. We will have sex again as soon as I recover.”
“Don’t touch me,” I tell him. “I have to shower right now. I can’t believe you lied to me. You horrible, horrible volk,” I tell him, and I’m practically bellowing at this point. I want to hit him again, but knowing that he finds pleasure in it makes me stay my hands. “Now I have to scrub myself from head to toe.”
I storm to the bathroom. It’s time for a cleansing shower at the maximum heat.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
VASILY
I’m too replete to be angered by Naomi’s need for a shower, and for a moment I think about joining her in the bathroom and rubbing the soap down over her thick nipples and between her sex before abandoning the suds altogether and ramming myself into her tight cunt. I draw a finger across my cheek, the one she slapped so suddenly and unexpectedly.
As I rise from the bed, the dirty mirror across the room catches my eye. My chest is a morass of red scratches and nail gouges. I smile at the vision, and then the smile turns into a laugh. “Okhuyénno.” I say the outlawed mat profanity with wonder as my laugh dies out. Very good. I rub my chest, enjoying the sting. I want her to whip me. To command me to my knees and then draw blood as she strikes me again and again. I grow hard at the thought of the pain and then the pleasure she’d bring me.
Pain is the one thing that made me feel in the past. Before Naomi, sexual intercourse felt no better than pissing or a good meal, and going without mattered little to me. The few times that I felt something more than relief during sex was when there was pain involved, but I never explored it. I don’t know that I understood what I needed until Naomi struck me and marked me. Now I want her to take me again and again. My body aches for her touch, the scrape of her nails, the bite of her sharp little teeth.
She’s an animal. Nyet. I correct myself. She is my animal and I am hers.
With a smug smile, I dress and leave.
Naomi will likely be in there for hours or at least until the hot water run
s out. While she is scrubbing away the germs of the mattress, I will take care of a few details so that we can be on the next train to Venice.
Florence is a small citadel of a city. The narrow, cobblestone streets are peopled mostly by tourists and students, but there’s an obvious unsavory element not so evident in Rome, where they hide it like the Vatican secrets away its treasures. There, but not seen.
Firenze, as the natives call it, suits me. It is the home of the Medicis. The epicenter of their power. I pause as I walk by the Santa Maria Duomo. Inside this church during mass, the Pazzi family, jealous of the Medicis’ power, sought to kill Lorenzo and his brother Giuliano. Bernardo Bandi and Francesco de’ Pazzi attacked the two brothers in front of the altar, a shocking occurrence, but it had been sanctioned by Pope Sixtus, who rightly feared the Medicis’ growing power. Giuliano was killed, stabbed nineteen times, but Lorenzo escaped. He claimed the hand of God protected him and surviving the attack close range was a sign that even the heavens approved of the Medicis. Giuliano’s ultimate revenge was from the grave when his illegitimate son went on to be Pope Clement VII.
The Medicis did not invent the idea of familia, but they set forth the blueprints of how to build a dynasty. They were ruthless in their retribution. In just hours after the attack during High Mass, the main conspirators, including Archbishop Salviati and signor Pazzi were hung by their necks outside the windows of Palazzo della Signoria. In the following days, the Medicis cut down nearly every male issue of the Pazzi family, and across Europe, their accounts were plundered by Medici friends.
Yet, the Medici dynasty is gone now. Their buildings having passed out of the family hands for the most part, their legacy one of history rather than current events.
As much as they can be admired, it is important to learn from their fall as well. Being mired in the past can only harm the future. The old guard of the Bratva with their nonsense desire for this painting will be their end. I will be their end.
Last Kiss Page 19
