Page 64 of Sexting the Bratva Beast
“More,” she gasps.
“More what. Talk to me, baby.”
“More tongue. Inside me.”
I don’t need to be told twice. I push my tongue inside her wet pussy, circling her slick-coated clit with my thumb. I eat heruntil my jaws ache, then I drag the flat of my tongue across her clit, gathering speed as her body starts to convulse.
“Come for me, baby.”
While her orgasm rocks her body, I free my cock. It’s ready to switch places. Rock hard. Pre-cum oozing from the head. I ram it into her all the way and lean over her, sliding her sweater up so that I can feel her hard nipples against my chest.
I fill her mouth with my tongue, her gentle whimpers as she tastes her own juices spurring me on. “So fucking sexy. I want to fuck you everywhere, baby.”
Cartier wraps her arms around my neck. “You’ve already fucked me on two different continents.”
“And I’m only just getting started.”
I grind my shaft inside her, and she folds her arms and legs around me like a bear clinging to a branch as if her life depends on it. My orgasm explodes faster than it ever has before. I fill her with my cum, shuddering against her, while the family jewels dig into my flesh, a reminder, in case I needed it, that she belongs with me.
17
CARTIER
I don’t know how,but we settle into a routine, snuggling up inside the sweeping mansion in front of roaring fires, with mugs of hot chocolate and heaps of marshmallows on permanent standby. It’s the stuff of Hallmark movies. A beautiful home, a sky filled with snow, our own personal library, and enough kindling to keep us warm for a century.
All that’s missing is the smiling faces of our families sitting around the TV in reindeer sweaters, choosing their favorite chocolates from the Christmas tubs, and wondering what they can eat next.
Oh, and fairy lights.
“We should decorate the house for Christmas,” I declare one morning, sitting at the breakfast bar in the kitchen, hugging a blanket around my shoulders while Andrej scrambles eggs with smoked salmon.
It isn’t cold, but the continuing snowfall outside makes it feel as if the house is twenty degrees colder than it actually is.
“Christmas?” He removes the pan from the heat to prevent the eggs from sticking to the bottom while he ponders the suggestion.
“Yeah, you know, big guy in the red suit, white beard, squeezes down chimneys carrying a sack filled with gifts.”
He grins. “I know what Christmas is.”
“Funny, for a minute there, I thought you were going to tell me that you never had a Christmas tree when you were growing up.”
“We did.” Andrej stirs the eggs, turns down the heat on the stove, and sets the pan back down. “But the holidays are traditionally celebrated a little later in Russia. The Julian calendar is two weeks behind.”
“Does that mean that you got to celebrate it twice? Once in Chicago, and then again here?”
There’s still so much that I don’t know about Andrej’s childhood, but whenever I try to talk to him, he seems to clam up like an oyster protecting the pearl in his center.
“Christmas was banned in Russia for most of the last century. My grandparents used to celebrate the holidays with us in the States. I guess it was a difficult habit to break once the ban was lifted.”
“Banned?”
I study the way the muscles in his back ripple while he’s cooking. The taut muscles in his ass. His solid thighs. My pussy tingles, and I can feel the damp patch spreading through my panties. If Mika could see me now, she’d start asking me for tips on how to maintain a state of permanent arousal.
Jeez…
“That’s terrible. All those children who didn’t get to experience the excitement of Christmas morning.”
Andrej ladles fluffy eggs onto hot buttered toast. “You don’t miss what you’ve never had.”
