Deceitful Vows (Marital Privileges #2)

28. Zoya

28

ZOYA

M y climb into my bed takes longer than usual. I was a little generous with my nips when I cracked open the bottle of vodka I purchased with the hope it would pre-empt celebratory drinks for the position I was meant to secure today.

It would have been commiseration drinks if I hadn’t run into Shevi.

That brief encounter gave me something to celebrate, and I never do anything in halves—particularly when my bed is mere feet from my chosen drinking location.

I’m not close to blackout drunk. The buzz is almost as nice as the one Andrik’s hand created earlier.

Almost.

My body has been thrumming with unexploited restlessness for hours. I want to blame the thickening of my veins on my first contact with a member of my sister’s inner circle in years, but that would be a lie.

The thud of my pulse is sexually related. The heat between my legs announces it, not to mention my head’s constant reminder tonight that I have a drawer of apparatuses at my disposal, so I don’t need a man to take care of the thrill.

Although annoyed my needs can’t take a step back for just one day, I also understand why that is the case. My morals dip when I’m tipsy, but they’re wholly obliterated when I’m horny.

If I want any chance of working past my confusion, I need to take the edge off.

Before I met Andrik, I self-stimulated regularly. Often multiple times a day. Now I’m on a climax drought that has me wishing I asked Dr. Hemway for some recommendations when he mentioned creams for dryness.

A tube of lube may be the only way I will get the vault back open after Andrik sealed it shut so cruelly earlier today. I was right there, on the cusp of orgasm, and then he took away all my surf gear and forced me to find my own way back to shore.

Perhaps that’s what the extra thump of my pulse is?

Maybe I’m not horny.

Perhaps it is solely fury keeping my head clouded with confusion.

Nope.

The only thing I am is a liar. The quickest brush of my fingertip over my panties-covered pussy proves this. My clit is primed and ready to go, and despite my belief I’d be dryer than the Sahara, the faintest sliver of dampness coats my index finger.

I’m wet and, for once, unashamed by this.

I don’t need a man to climax, and it isn’t like Andrik owns my orgasms. He doesn’t even own me, so how can he claim possession of something that is a part of me?

He can’t.

Ignoring the screaming protests of my body that a solo trek will never feel as good as a fire-sparking coupling, I slant my head to peer out my partially cracked-open bedroom door.

I don’t know who I am looking for. I’ve lived alone for years. There’s just been a weird feeling in the air over the last couple of weeks. Almost like I am being watched.

To ensure that isn’t the case, I plug in the dirtbox Mikhail gifted me four weeks ago to ensure it doesn’t lose charge like it did when I turned up at Nikita’s work unannounced earlier today.

Once its flashes announce it is in operation, I slide my hand back between my legs so fast that vodka isn’t the sole cause of my dizziness. I hate that I’m already wet enough to darken the crotch of my panties with a shadow, but you wouldn’t know that for how fast I direct my fingers to my clit. My motivation to bring myself to climax seems more about proving to myself that I still have what it takes to be pleasured, that I don’t need a man to make me feel good—especially not a taken one.

After tugging off my panties, I slide two fingers between the folds of my pussy, slicking them with the wetness building more rapidly than any previous solo journey, before firming my clit more with my thumb.

A lazy smile stretches across my face when they don’t encounter an ounce of resistance when I thrust two fingers inside myself—forever impatient.

They slide in with ease and feel incredibly arousing.

The buzz they spark through me has me hopeful this won’t take long. My first self-pleasing expedition in over a month has nothing to do with pleasure and everything to do with needing sleep.

I’ll never be able to help Nikita purchase the breathing machine Grampies needs to live pain-free if I turn up to an interview looking like a zombie.

Yeah, right.

Even when it is of my own doing, I like to feel desired. Validated.

I want to be wanted.

It is an annoying crutch I’ve struggled to give up since childhood.

I doubt it will ever fully go away. I just wish I could mimic how desired I felt when it was Andrik’s hand on me instead of my own.

He knew precisely where to touch and for exactly how long. It was like he could read my body and understand its every desire.

Although it is fleeting, he truly makes me feel wanted when his hands are on me.

Cherished, even.

An unwanted shudder shakes my thigh when a stern tweak of my clit has me recalling something he said earlier.

Who owns this cunt, darling?

“Not you,” I murmur, more angry at myself than him that he is leading what is meant to be a solo expedition.

He shouldn’t be hard to hate. The guilt he makes me feel after every exchange should fester in my heart until it boils over. But no matter how hard I’ve tried to forget him the past month, he continually pops up. Whether in my dreams or while speaking to Mikhail before he railroaded me without warning again today, he always takes center stage.

I can’t let him have this too.

This is the one thing I have all to myself. I don’t have to share it with anyone.

I slide my fingers in and out of myself while flicking my clit with my opposite hand. Pleasure jolts through me over and over, but before it can crest and then crash through me, the anticipation I’m attempting to ignite dulls to a simmer, and the urge floats away.

As I drift my eyes to the drawer that’s impossible to open without a creak loud enough to wake my neighbors, I push my fingers in and out of my pussy at a frantic pace.

Is that the issue? Do I want to be fucked instead of made slow, lazy love to like I was after Andrik cooked and fed me?

The memory of his attentiveness that night spreads a rush of heat across my chest and puckers my nipples.

“ Yesss ,” I moan, hopeful.

I work myself faster, harder . I fuck myself with my fingers until stars form and my thighs shake. It is an almost clumsy embrace since my woozy limbs can’t keep up with the frantic pace my body is demanding. Each flick, pinch, and thrust brings me closer and closer to the edge.

They just never fully push me over it.

I can’t climax by myself anymore, and the frustration has me on the verge of bursting into tears.

With the aggression of a man who forgot to take his little blue pill before his fiftieth birthday sex, I yank my hand out of my pants and then throw an arm over my eyes.

I will not cry over this any more than I’d cry over a man. I just need a moment to gather my bearings and to let the alcohol fumbling my movements burn off enough to find the right rhythm.

I’m not broken.

I am simply drunker than I first realized.

“I can do this. I can make myself come. Andrik doesn’t own my orgasms.”

My pulse thumps as loudly as my shouted chant when a deep accented voice says, “Do I need to take you over my knee again, милая ?”

As my arm falls from my face, my eyes rocket open. I can’t see a damn thing. It is dark in my room in general. Tonight, it is pitch black. Not even the streetlights that reflect off the building across from mine sneak through the cracks of my curtains.

Certain my ears are playing tricks on me, I remain quiet while endeavoring to adjust my eyes to the dark conditions.

The scent I refused to wash off tonight adds to the goose bumps popping up over my skin. It isn’t solely pricy aftershave. It is a mixture of smells that conjure up memories of sheet-clenching sex, and it sends my head into a tailspin.

I don’t need a drawer of sex toys to come anymore. I just need that delicious smell.

No longer capable of playing the daft card, I say, “Andr?—”

“Shh,” interrupts a whispered voice close enough to announce the cause of the dip at the end of my mattress near my ankles. “We need to be quiet.”

As quickly as fret slicked my skin with sweat, anger dries it.

“No. You need to be quiet. I can do whatever the fuck I want.”

You shouldn’t be able to hear a smirk. I swear I can.

It is so obvious that Andrik is relishing my defiance that it fortifies my determination to give him the full shebang.

“You need to go home, back to your wife .”

The slip-up at the end of my sentence is easily forgivable when you learn how quickly Andrik can make my body pliable to his touch. His lips barely nibble on my ankle, yet the wave in my stomach is on the verge of cresting.

It almost topples when he says, “I don’t want her. I want you .” His hand slides up my thigh, growling when he realizes I am without panties. “And I will have you. I just need you to be patient until it is safe. Until I can guarantee I can protect you better than I did my mother.”

I can’t see him, but I can feel his determination. I continue to fight, though, to remember my anger. His rejection hurt me today, and I’m notorious for lashing out when hurt. Why should my quirks be any different for him?

“I don’t need your protection. I own a gun, and I know how to use it.”

“Good.” The level of praise in his gravelly voice doubles the height of the goose bumps dotting my skin. He sounds genuinely pleased. “Perhaps after I’ve made you come you can show it to me.”

I squirm up the bed. “You’re not going to make me come. I don’t need you to make me come. I’m perfectly capable of making myself come.”

Underneath the bedding, his hot breaths batter my skin when he backhands my clit before murmuring, “Lie to me again, милая , and not even my hand marks on your ass will save you from my wrath.”

“Who said I’m lying?” I force the words through lips dying to release the moans rumbling in my chest.

Quicker than I can fathom, the bedding is pulled across my body, leaving me exposed and vulnerable.

“This…” I stammer in a sharp breath when his fingers play at the wetness between my legs. “Your hands barely caused a trickle.” Again, he backhands my clit, sending a fiery warmth across my midsection. “I’ve hardly touched you, yet you’re already drenched”—my eyes are slowly adjusting. I don’t need the room lit up like daylight to know he inches closer before finalizing his sentence, though—“for me .”

I kick at the heat licking at my feet enough for Andrik to grunt. There’s no real power behind my whack. No real anger. I didn’t lie when I said my morals are obliterated when I’m horny. They’re nowhere to be seen since there was more assurance in his tone than haughtiness.

Part of me is furious I let this get this far. The other part, the clearly unethical part, won’t let anything stop it. Shock waves of pleasure careen down over me, making me a shuddering mess, and I am desperate to come. But can I do this? Can I disregard another woman’s feelings so my ego can be stroked?

No, I can’t.

“You can’t be here. You need to go. I don’t want you here.” With words not getting through to him, I get desperate. “Mikhail could come back at any?—”

A hand clamps my mouth shut at the same time a warm and probing tongue invades my pussy. It spears in deep before it does a long, leisurely lick of my insides.

One lick and my campaign to be on the right side of good is undone.

As my thighs sweep open, pleasure cascades down my spine.

Two fingers slip between my legs next. They gather up the wetness before dipping into my pussy at the same unhurried pace of his tongue.

My brain screams at me to buck him off me and make out this isn’t exactly what I am craving, but since I am as desperate for him to bestow my clit with a heap of attention as I am to stop this, I breathe through the sensation threatening to swallow me whole and act like the submissive I will never be.

It is an act worthy of an Oscar, but the instant Andrik’s tongue curls around my clit, I crumble like a dried mud pie left on the asphalt being run over by a Mack truck.

An orgasm crashes through me as frantically as a tsunami races to shore. It is uncontrollable. Wild. And devastating.

It tells my head what my body was trying to express only moments ago.

That Andrik owns my orgasms as much as he does me.

I will never let him know that I’ve worked that out, though. The instant he unclamps my mouth, the first thing I’ll tell him is that I will never be his.

I just need him to stop eating me. Stop consuming me. Stop making me feel so wanted that I don’t care how many baby mommas or wives he ends up with.

He doesn’t, though. He continues devouring me as if I am his favorite dessert until I scream his name into the tattooed hand muffling my mouth and then collapse from exhaustion.