Page 49 of Forced to Marry the Russian Pakhan
She hesitates. Her voice dips. “I’ve never... You know.”
I blink. “You’ve never had sex?”
“What? I’m not a virgin. Of course I’ve had sex!” she protests. “What I haven’t had is an…Orgasm with a partner,” her voice dips. “Just my vibrator. “
I stare at her.
A sharp mix of heat and frustration coils low in my spine. Not at her. At the ghost of every man who ever touched her and didn’t think to finish the job.
“Jesus, Yulia.”
She flinches. “Forget I said anything—”
The image that flashes through my mind—her sprawled across her bed, legs spread, toy between her thighs—sends heat straight to my groin.
“No,” I cut in without thinking, voice rough. “You said it. And now I can’t stop picturing that perfect little body spread out with nothing but your vibrator for company.”
She swallows. Her legs press together. My gaze drops. So does hers.
The air thickens again. She’s looking at me differently now—like she’s not quite sure if she wants to slap me or kiss me. A charged silence falls between us. The air in the car feels suddenly thick, electric. I’m too aware of her—the scent of her perfume, the rise and fall of her chest, the way her tongue darts out to wet her lower lip.
“Trifon—” she whispers, inching closer.
“We’re home,” the driver says, just as the car rolls to a smooth stop.
Fuck. He couldn’t take one detour. A look of disappointment flashes across Yulia’s face, and in that moment, I know. I know she wanted to kiss me.
Neither of us moves immediately. The engine idles. The driver waits.
“We should go in,” she says finally, her voice soft.
I nod, but still don’t move. Can’t seem to tear my eyes away from her face.
We enter the house in silence, the tension from the car following us inside. The foyer is dimly lit, the rest of the house quiet—the staff gone for the night.
She pauses at the foot of the stairs, hesitating.
“I should...” she gestures vaguely upstairs. “It’s late.”
“Yulia,” I say, my voice low. I don’t know what I’m about to say, just that I need to say something.
She turns back to me, a question in her eyes. “Yes?”
“You deserve better,” I tell her. “Than what you’ve had.”
Her breath catches. “What do you mean?”
I step closer, closing the distance between us. “I mean, you deserve to feel good. To be satisfied. To not settle for... vibrators.”
A flush spreads across her cheeks, but she doesn’t back away. “Is that so?”
“Yes,” I say simply.
We’re standing too close now. I can see the flecks of gold in her green eyes and count each of her eyelashes.
Her breath hitches.
She doesn’t move away. Doesn’t speak. Just looks up at me—eyes wide, lips parted, chest rising and falling like she’s trying to catch up with what her body already knows.
