Page 68 of Beautifully Deranged

Her lips brush mine, but she doesn’t kiss me. “I should make you beg to come,” she whispers. “Beg to touch me.”

“I’d sell my soul for a taste.”

She gets off me, leaving me aching, throbbing, and borderline deranged. Beautifully so.

I sit there, barely holding on, watching her try on outfit after outfit. And I can’t look away. She wears that goddamn feather dress next. The ugly one she tossed into the cart just to piss me off. It’s the kind of thing that should’ve killed my erection. Should’ve. But instead? I’m still hard as a rock for this vixen.

No panties. No bra. Just bare, glistening skin beneath those ridiculous feathers. She twirls slowly in front of me, arms in the air. “Still think it’s hideous?”

“I think I want to bend you over and fuck you in it until the seams split.”

She giggles, bending over the edge of the bed, and starts swaying her hips. Feathers lift just enough to show me heaven. No panties. Just ass and slick cunt and—

Jesus Christ.

She looks at me from over her shoulder, lashes fluttering. “Aw, poor baby. Does the big bad Bratva boss have a boner over a girl in feathers?” Her tongue teases the corner of her mouth. “What was that about groveling?”

“Still groveling, baby. I’ll grovel with my face buried in your pussy.” I drop to my knees and bury my tongue between her legs like a man possessed. She jerks forward with a strangled moan, her hands clawing at the mattress, trying to stay upright as I devour her from behind. Filthy. Wet. Loud. I fuck her with my tongue, with my fingers, until she’s shaking, whimpering my name, leaking down my chin. Feathers tickle my face as I groan into her. She’s a mess.My mess.

She jolts, half gasp, half wicked laugh, as I kiss her asshole. “I want every fucking inch of you,” I mutter against her skin, licking up slowly, then spitting before licking her again. “I want you leaking from both holes and begging me not to stop.”

“I should keep you in this dress,” I pant, standing up and pressing my cock against her. “Tie you to the bed. Make you come until you’re crying into my sheets.”

“I’d still make you beg,” she challenges.

I growl, flipping her onto her back. Feathers flare out beneath her like wings. I kiss her hard. Tongue, teeth, and all need.

“I missed you,” she breathes, just before I push inside her.

“Say it again,” I whisper into her mouth.

“I missed you.”

“Louder.”

“I fucking missed you, Mikhail.”

The bed rocks. Feathers fly. Her hands are in my hair, on my back, nails in deep. She bites my shoulder to keep from screaming.

“Come for me,” I growl, speeding up. “Soak this ugly fucking dress. Come while I ruin it.”

And she does just that with a broken moan and a shudder that rips through her whole body. I follow her over the edge seconds later, gritting her name like a prayer I don’t deserve. Coming so hard I see white. We collapse in a heap of feathers and sweat and bruised lips. The air is thick with the scent of sex.

“I want to return the dress,” she mumbles.

I laugh against her throat. “Over my dead fucking body. It grew on me.”

?Chapter Thirty two?

Lola

I sit on the couch with one of his shirts hanging off my shoulder. It still smells like him: his cologne, his sweat, his sin. A fruit bowl rests on the coffee table, and I stab a strawberry with the tip of a steak knife—the only knife in Mikhail's kitchen—watching the red juices leak out like blood.

Mikhail sits beside me, laptop balanced on one knee, eyes glued to whatever business he’s handling. He’s working from home today because he wanted to spend the day with me. I hold the strawberry out to him on that gigantic knife, and he leans in to take a bite.

Yesterday, I threw a tantrum. I tore through half the designer stores in the mall, tried on every ridiculous thing I could find, shoved his card into the hands of terrified cashiers. Yet, he didn’t snap or leave or say a word that would stick in my head for years.

No.

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