Page 25 of Air Force One
Sex with Inessa was always a gentle wonder. Sex with Tania—Fairy Queen fit her perfectly—up against the black marble wall of the women’s bathroom had been hard, fast, and left them both laughing for how good it felt to acknowledge the animal inside without hold or bar. He’d forgotten what that felt like from back in his pilot days. Except then it had been a whore in a pilot’s bar, not the eldest daughter of one of the twenty great oligarchs.
His wild Fairy Queen radiated power. A top track-and-field athlete because she had the vision, the drive, and the body—Gods but she had the body, all sleek muscle and blonde hair down to her perfect ass. The last double handful of that lovely hair was a wide stripe of silver and above it a slender line of the richest blue he’d ever seen as a pilot flying beneath a clear Arctic sky. It wove and rippled and she wrapped it around his throat like a great thick scarf while he took her against that wall. They didn’t stop once during the long afternoon. They drank and laughed and danced and screwed again before dancing and drinking even more.
He’d been drunk enough to make the mistake of asking for her number. She waved a hand at the club as if the answer was obvious. If he wanted to forget the outside world for an afternoon, he might find her here.
Drunk enough to ask for her number but sober enough, barely, to stop at the barrier of Inessa’s private stairs.
To hell with that.
He’d thought to shower off any hint of his afternoon tryst.
To hell with that, too. Women said they could always tell, but that was just some rumor they spread about like cow manure to keep husbands in line.
To hell with Inessa’s limitless power.
And Inessa’s perfect refinement.
And her gentle ways in bed.
And—
Just thinking about Tania’s bucking body and clawing sun-gold-glitter fingernails aroused him all over again. He thumped down the empty crystal tumbler, returned to the hall, climbed Inessa’s stairs—his stairs, by God, it was his home too—and shoved open the door.
He slowed only enough to note that it was a room for women. It was all pretty and refined and smelled of roses in the middle of winter and?—
Artemy Turgenev was an FSB two-star general, by God, who had just fucked a wild Fairy Queen a decade his junior twice in an afternoon.
Inessa sat with her back to him, alone on a velvet sofa. The cashmere sweater made her look soft; the linen slacks made her sleek as he stopped behind her and looked down the front of her blouse to where he could see a hint of black satin. Tania wore no such restraints, needed none to keep her figure in perfect form.
“Good evening, Artemy. How was your day?” She asked without turning from the silent TV showing who cared what. The same greeting in one way or another, every day. Always glad to listen, to suggest, to?—
He didn’t give a shit.
Right now? All he cared about was what he wanted. He buried his face where her thick hair swirled around the side of her neck, grabbing a breast through the cashmere. It wasn’t enough! He plunged his other hand over her opposite shoulder, down inside the sweater, the silk blouse, which lost several buttons, and under that satin bra to grasp the other of those award-winning breasts. He knew that many of his peers lusted after Inessa—how many called him a lucky bastard or said he didn’t deserve her—but she was his to have.
“Well,” she huffed out a breath, “That’s a change of pace.”
He’d show her a change of pace. He yanked his hands free, grabbed onto the couch, and flopped it backward. Inessa tumbled with the couch to lie before him. Not bothering with button or zipper, he tore open Inessa’s pants. The button shot aside and the zipper cried out as he jerked it apart. He yanked her slacks off one leg, in too much of a hurry to bother with the other. He drove his hands upward, scooping the sweater aside and destroying the rest of the blouse. He freed one breast and fell on it while he clawed at the bra until it tore between strap and wire to expose the other.
When he fumbled with his own pants, she helped him. The ever-so-proper Inessa let him spread her in her shredded clothes. When he wanted to feed on a breast, she drew him tightly against it. When his taste went lower, she dug her fingers into his hair and arched to meet him.
And when he drove into her, she wrapped her legs around him.
He took and he took and he took. The more he did, the tighter she held him as if she’d never let him go. He took all that he could manage from Inessa until he left her tousled, disheveled, dressed in tattered remnants, and lying half on the back of a tipped couch and half on the Persian carpet in her ever-so-feminine boudoir.
Even so, her perfection remained intact.
Not once did she complain.
But neither did she moan when the release slammed out of him.
Nor did she laugh for the sheer glory of being alive as his Wild Fairy Queen had—Wild Fairy Fucking Queen Tania had whispered when he’d told her his name for her, just before her body had spasmed in a massive release.
Afterward, Inessa made no move to push him away or cover herself.
He buried his face against her chest, his nose against the tattered remains of her bra, to hide from what he’d done to her. As she cradled his head and stroked his shoulders, he wished that the soft breasts pressing against either side of his face belonged to his Wild Fairy Fucking Queen’s taut physique—and felt even worse.
Had he seen Inessa’s expression, he wouldn’t have understood it.
