I take one delicious nipple inside my mouth as she continues her explicit and heat-inducing examination of my shaft. Her back arches to shove the nipple deeper into my mouth. I suck hard, so hard she gasps and is unable to continue speaking.
My hand dips into the well my mouth drank from just moments ago. She’s slick, juicy, and ready. I bring my knee forward to press her thighs apart, and she guides my cock to her entrance.
“Naomi, will you instruct me?” I ask, poised to thrust forward. I want to gaze into her blue depths, just for a moment. It takes her great effort to do so, and my heart leaps as those eyes make brief contact and then slide away. “You are so true, so beautiful.” I stroke her cheek.
“I want you inside me.”
I push inside, just a little. “You need to be more explicit.”
She slaps me impatiently on my flank. “All the way. I want you to fill me up with your cock.”
I do as she asks and then . . . pause.
“You are playing with me,” she says.
“I am,” I respond solemnly. “I enjoy hearing your voice. I enjoy hearing you describe the filthy things we do in your very remarkable way. So, Naomi, tell me. What is it that you want me to do?”
“I want you to pump—no thrust. Thrust is a better word. Thrust inside of me.”
I start to move, slowly dragging my cock along her swollen tissues. Her mouth falls open and a moan colors the air.
“At what pace should I move?”
“Faster,” she says, and thrusts against me. At her command I begin to thrust faster, drilling into her fiercely enough to make her breasts shake in her chest, hard enough to push her palms into the headboard, deep enough to feel her womb at the end of my cock.
I push her knees up higher, press her thighs open wider so that there is no place inside her that is untouched.
“What else?” I say through gritted teeth.
“Touch my clit.”
My hand trembles with passion as I place it over her mons. I pinch her little organ between my fingers, and her hips rise off the bed.
“I live to be inside you, Naomi. Everything I do in Moscow, in London, in Hong Kong, is to be able to come here to our dacha and slide my cock inside your sweet cunt and fuck until we are mad, mindless things.”
She does not respond with words, only with increasingly louder moans of pleasure. Her face is rapt and her body is tense under mine. Ready to receive, ready to give.
I drive her into the mattress, following her, and drive into her lush body again and again, because we are hurricanes of need. Our mouths feast upon each other and our hands knead, stroke, and strike skin against skin until we are a blur of ecstasy.
In the wreckage of our lovemaking, we lay breathless.
“You are my heart,” I murmur against her hair when I’m able to speak and form thought again.
“You know what, Vasya?” Naomi sits upright, captivated by a thought.
“What?” I trail a lazy finger up the knobs of her spine.
“You and I are like the Caravaggio. We are the Caravaggio.”
“How so?” I’m bemused.
“You are the volk and I’m the Madonna. You devoured me in the woods just like in that painting!”
“So as long as we are together, the power of the Bratva will be unimpeachable?”
She nods solemnly. Naomi so rarely tells a joke. She is very literal and in this moment, I do not know if it is joke or real. I think and then come to the conclusion I do not care. For she is not entirely wrong. I am the wolf of Russia, and she is the woman who saved me and in doing so saved many others. Without her I am nothing. So . . . we are the Caravaggio painting come to life. The volk and the Madonna. It is good.
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Last Kiss Page 30
