Page 45 of Stolen Empire
His fingers find me, sliding through the slickness, teasing before slipping inside.
My breath catches, a strangled sound leaving my throat as he moves them in slow, deep strokes, curling just enough to make my hips press flat to the wall, the hard surface cold against my back as he holds me there.
His mouth never leaves my skin—he trails kisses from my breast to my collarbone, up the curve of my neck, until his lips brush my ear.
“Wet already,” he growls. “Your pussy is practically begging me for this, isn't it, Katya?"
I can’t answer.
All I can do is breathe his name as he pushes another finger inside me, his thumb finding that sensitive spot that makes the room disappear.
The sound of it—his fingers, my breath, his growl when I clench around him—fills the air.
He works me like he knows every part of me, and maybe he does.
His teeth catch on my shoulder as he drags his fingers faster, harder, until my whole body goes rigid.
“Come for me,” he whispers, the words broken by his breathing.
“Right here on my hand.”
It hits me fast, stealing the air from my lungs.
My back arches off the wall, my whole body trembling around his wrist as waves crash through me.
He keeps his fingers buried inside, driving them in shallow, rhythmic strokes that make me cry out again, until my thighs quiver and my vision goes hazy.
The pulse between my legs intensifies, throbbing harder each time he moves until I’m shaking uncontrollably, head falling back against the wall with a soft thud.
He watches every second of it, breath coming in ragged bursts, his jaw tight with restraint.
Even as I gasp and clutch at his arms, begging silently for mercy, he doesn’t stop until the last tremor leaves me and I’m spent and trembling.
Only then does Dimitri slide his fingers out and drag them against my swollen ache before he pulls away.
He looks down at me—his chest heaving, eyes dark with hunger and something close to reverence.
He brings his fingers to his mouth and tastes me, eyes fixed on mine.
“I could live on this,” he says, his voice dark and hungry.
Before I can respond, he’s moving between my legs, lowering himself until his mouth replaces his hand.
His tongue slides through me, slow at first, then faster, rougher, until I’m gripping his hair and crying out again.
He moans against me, the vibration making me writhe.
His tongue is magic, drawing circles around my clit until I can’t tell where the pleasure starts or ends.
Each stroke is slower, deeper, more consuming—his mouth sealing over me, sucking until my knees threaten to give out.
The sound of his breath against my skin, the heat of his tongue sliding through me again and again—it’s too much, too perfect, and I’m breaking apart on it, every nerve alive.
When I start to shake, he looks up, his mouth wet, his eyes wild.
“You’re going to come again,” he says. “And then I’m going to fuck you until you can't walk."
And then his tongue is back on me, relentless, his hands holding my thighs apart while I fall apart all over again.
