Page 55 of One Last Shot

CHAPTER15

ALEKSANDR

I take a long drink of my water, letting it cool my nerves about Stella’s absence and the blatant attraction I’m feeling toward Petra. When I tip the bottle back down, she’s standing in the doorway between the kitchen and the butler’s pantry, wearing a white dress with wide straps and a full, but short, skirt. She’s got on platform wedges with tan leather straps that barely stand out against her olive skin and make her legs look a mile long.

“If we’re married, why aren’t we having sex?”

Her question is so unexpected that the water slips down the wrong pipe and my throat spasms. I can feel the liquid tickling my lungs and I need to cough, but it’s like my entire esophagus is paralyzed. I can feel my eyes widen as my lungs contract, but the cough is frozen inside them. Finally, everything releases and I’m left sputtering.

I bend at the waist, coughing violently into my elbow. When the liquid is out of my lungs, I look at her and say, “This isn’t that kind of marriage.”

“I fail to see what I’m getting out of it, then.”

It’s a fair point. “Petra, we’re doing this for Stella.”

“A woman still has needs,” she says, then she spins on her heel and stalks through the pantry.

“Where are you going?” I ask, too stunned to follow her at first.

“Out,” she calls over her shoulder as I follow her through the dining room. In the entryway, she grabs the jean jacket and straw purse sitting on the cushioned bench. “If you’re not going to meet my needs, then I’ll find someone who will. I’ll be back in the morning.”

I’m practically on top of her before she can even get her first arm into her jacket, backing her into the wall. I plant my hands on either side of her head. “Like hell you will. You’re a married woman.”

She snorts, a derisive sound that emanates from the back of her throat. “Are marriages even real if they’re not consummated?”

She’s been married for fourteen years and I’m confident she’s slept with her fair share of men in that time. But sheknowsshe’s married now, and that should make a difference to her like it’s made a difference to me.

“You have no idea what you’re asking,” I growl, my face inches from hers.

She lowers her eyes to my lips. “I don’t ask,” she says quietly.

Yes, this is a woman who is used to calling the shots.

“You’re going to beg,” I say, my voice low, steady. I can’t control this desire any longer, not when she’s standing in front of me challenging me to do the thing my body most wants to do. “And you’re going to like it.”

I swallow her scoff with my lips, and her mouth parts for me like she’s been waiting for this since she first walked into my apartment over a week ago. I have sixteen years of pent up sexual frustration when it comes to Petra Volkova, and it’s going to be damn near impossible to take this slow, with the attention and reverence she deserves.

With one of my hands, I cup the back of her head, digging my fingers into her thick hair until my fingertips rest against her skull. Her tongue laps at mine, presses into it, circles, retreats. I chase after her, pressing her further back against the wall as my whole body advances toward her. The need to touch her, to feel her against me, supersedes everything else. I am out of control, and I don’t lose control. This woman makes me crazy.

She pushes her hips forward, tilts them up so she presses along the hard length of me, then she sighs into my mouth and leans her head back against my hand to break the contact as she breathes deeply. Her neck is elongated and exposed, so I trail kisses along her jaw and down the column of her neck. I nip at her collarbone and slide the strap of her dress off her shoulder so I can taste her smooth skin. Then I trail kisses across her cleavage, but the minute I move up the other side of her neck, she’s pushing her chest into me. I don’t have the superhuman strength it would take to resist her.

When my lips meet hers again, she wraps her hands around my lower back, anchoring our bodies together. She runs her fingers under the hem of my shirt and the sensation of her fingertips riding the ridges of my muscles has me groaning into her mouth. The need is consuming, like a fire just waiting for a lick of oxygen before it explodes.

The small dose of oxygen comes when she unbuttons the waistband of my jeans, then slides them down over my hips and pushes them past my thighs and lets them fall to the floor. Suddenly, the only things standing between us are the thin cotton of my boxer briefs and the gauzy material of her dress. The fire explodes into an inferno.

I pull away from her, just enough to see her face as I bring my hands to the straps of her dress. I watch her eyes as I slide the other strap off her shoulder, and she raises one eyebrow like she’s challenging me to actually slide that dress down her body. With careful hands, I pull the straps along her arms, and that smocked top follows as it drags along her sides. Her breasts spring free and my cock swells even bigger and harder than I thought possible. I want my mouth all over those tits. I want to fuck them, I want to feel them dragging along my abdomen as she lowers herself to her knees in front of me, I want to see them spread before me as I hold myself over her and plunge into her, I want to see them bouncing as she rides me, I want my hands on them as I bend over her back with my hips pressing into her from behind. There’s no shortage of ways I want to be with her. And I already know, with absolute certainty, that once will not be enough. Tonight will not be enough.

I’m not sure there is an “enough.”

I continue pulling the straps down until the fabric slides over her hips and pools at her feet, where I drop on one knee to pull the dress aside as she steps out of it. I gaze up at her from the floor. The sunset has golden light streaming in from the glass ceiling above us, so she’s literally glowing. It’s like looking at a painting of the goddess Venus, but Petra is far hotter than any Venus I’ve ever seen captured on a canvas.

From here, my head is at her waist, so I drag my tongue along the top seam of her skimpy underwear, then up to her belly button. I continue my path up the center of her abdomen as I slowly stand until my tongue is between her breasts. I cup one in each hand, wanting to both devour them and worship them at the same time. When she moves her hand between us and wraps it around me through my boxer briefs, I dip my head so my mouth meets one of her nipples. My tongue laps at it, and she leans into me, pushing her breast further into my mouth. My lips latch over her skin as I suck, gently pulling her nipple deeper as I slide my tongue over it. Her response is exquisite: the way her hand tightens on my cock, the groan that escapes her throat, the way she whispers, “Yes, Sasha.”

I let one of my hands travel down to her bare ass, where I give her a playful squeeze that has her hips pushing forward, seeking me out, so I trail my fingers around her hip and dip my fingers into her underwear. I slide them down, brushing over her clit, then trailing along her slick seam until they arrive at her entrance. She’s so wet for me—this would be a turn-on no matter what, but it’s all the sweeter because I have wanted her forever.

I dip one finger into her and pull out slowly, then enter with two fingers. “Yes,” she hisses, and her hips move like they have a mind of their own so that her warm, tight pussy slides back and forth over my fingers. “Holy shit,” she sighs, and I glance up at her from where my tongue still plays with her nipple. Her lips are forming a small O, and her eyes are heavily lidded, almost half-closed in pleasure. She’s close, and there’s no way the first time I make her come is going to be against a wall in my entryway. It’s bad enough that I’ll never be able to walk into my apartment again without hearing and seeing her exactly like this, I don’t need to remember the sound of her coming every time I walk in here too.

I pull my fingers out of her as I fully stand, and she whimpers. It’s an intoxicating sound that makes me feel powerful, like I have some modicum of control over this uncontrollable creature. With both arms, I reach around her, my hands coming between her thighs from behind and lifting her so she’s wrapped around my waist. Her legs grip my hips as I turn and walk her down the hall, and she bends her head to trail her tongue along my earlobe before capturing it between her teeth. “Walk faster,” her husky voice demands.

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