Chapter 16 Imelt at the slide of Sergei's tongue against mine. He's an expert, an artist, and I can't get enough of him. It's everything I've been waiting for, yet a ribbon of nerves snakes through me. The last time we nearly kissed, someone barged in. The moment the thought forms, he presses me into the door and flicks the lock. His arms cage me, pinning me with his body, blocking any escape. He wants this as fiercely as I do and is just as eager and unwilling to risk another interruption. His hand slips to the back of my neck, and then his mouth is on mine. There's nothing hesitant or gentle about it. His kiss is deep and consuming, like he's trying to make up for lost time. I feel it everywhere: my lips, my spine, the ache blooming low in my belly. My hands clutch his shirt for balance, for something solid to cling to. I press myself flush against him, where every inch of me aches for him. His hands skim up my sides, a near tickle, until I capture one and guide it to my breast, where he cups me with surprising gentleness. I arch into his touch, a moan escaping as I grind against him. "I need so much more," I rasp against his mouth. "I need you to touch me." "Fuck, Nicole," he curses under his breath. "Get undressed." Just like last time, he likes to take charge. Much to my surprise, I like being commanded. Obeying and watching his reaction makes me feel wickedly sexy. I nudge his chest, guiding him back until his knees brush the mattress and he drops onto it, eyes gone dark. I step back and slowly peel my shirt over my head, watching him swallow hard. His hands curl into fists, like he's willing himself to stay present, not give in. His desire is obvious, yet he clings to control. Interesting. As I slowly slide off my jeans, I wonder what would make him lose that carefully crafted façade. Would touching myself and giving him a real show drive him wild enough to lose control? I want to undo him and ruffle that immaculate composure. I cup my still-covered breast and squeeze, biting my lip. "Nicole," he warns, his voice dark and dangerous. "What's wrong?" I ask as innocently as I can. "Off," he says, pointing to the puddle of clothes at my feet. "Yes, sir." I turn toward the door and unhook my bra with excruciating slowness. I glance over my shoulder, tracking his expression as I slide the straps down, then fling the bra aside. I've never done a striptease for anyone, yet I've never felt sexier. I cup my breasts with my palms and slowly turn, savoring his reaction. He fists the bedspread, knuckles white, fighting for patience. He's desperate to appear in control, but the façade is unraveling fast. I cross an arm to cover both breasts and trail the other hand down to peel off my panties-slow, deliberate. That's his breaking point, and he snaps. In one quick motion, he stands, grabs me by the hips, and turns us around so I'm back against the bed. He eases me onto my back, then captures my panties between his teeth and drags them off, leaving me utterly bare. He straightens, taking one deliberate step back to watch me. His erection strains against his pants and absently adjusts himself but makes no move to undress. Instead, he crawls over me, pinning my wrists above my head, spreading me open for his gaze. The other trails to my core, stroking gently, testing me. "Fuck, Nicole," he hisses. "You're so fucking wet already." His lips move to my neck, sucking gently at the tender spot just above my collarbone. I writhe against him, trying to pull his fingers in more deeply. "Ah-ah-ah," he chides. "Your turn to show a little control." A shiver races through me, but I force myself to comply. I picture the most mundane things as his tongue and fingers explore my body, finding my most sensitive parts. I try not to react when he discovers a spot that's extra ticklish or unbearably good, but it's impossible. He's playing me like a fiddle and he knows it. "It's not so easy, is it?" he teases, finally releasing my hands. "No," I whine, trembling with need. He's wound me up, coiled me tightly. My body aches for release that only he can give, and I know he wants me to beg for it. "I'm sorry for teasing you." "Don't ever be sorry for that," he whispers in my ear. "Just tell me what it is you want." "I want you to taste me," I moan, already squirming at the thought. He answers with a kiss beneath my ear, a soft lick that trails down my neck. He doesn't tease this time, doesn't make me ask again. He slides between my legs, kneeling on the floor and tugging me to the mattress edge for perfect access. "You're so beautiful," he murmurs, his mouth just inches from my core. "So pink, so wet, so perfect. I wonder what you taste like." His fingers spread me open, and his tongue begins a slow, deliberate rhythm over my clit. "Fuck," I whisper as my hands fly to my nipples, squeezing gently in search of release. "You taste like candy," he murmurs, the vibration of his words sparking delicious jolts through me. "And cookies, and all the sweetest things I love to devour. Do you want me to devour you, Nicole?" "Hell, yes," I moan, arching into him. He slips one finger inside of me, then another as he continues exploring my depths with his mouth. His rhythm is slow, lazy, despite his promise not to tease me. He's thorough, hunting every nerve that makes me cry out, leaving no inch of me unloved. His free hand sketches patterns on my inner thigh, light enough to tease, but firm enough to feed the inferno building in my core. I fall apart under the onslaught of pleasure unlike anything I've known. "Sergei," I whisper, or maybe I moan. His name is a prayer on my tongue, broken and desperate, over and over again. He hums softly in response, and the vibration sends a fresh wave of pleasure rolling through me. I gasp, my hips arching into his mouth, and he doesn't stop me. If anything, he encourages me. His grip on my thighs tightens, and the rhythm of his tongue over my clit grows more deliberate, more possessive, like he wants to carve his name there so that I'm forever marked as his. Pressure builds faster than ever before. Maybe it's because we've been circling each other for weeks, heat simmering just beneath the surface, or maybe it's the pregnancy hormones. Either way, my orgasm crashes over me like a tidal wave, sweeping me under. I cry out, fingers twisting the sheets as my body bucks beneath the pleasure. He holds me through it, never easing up, wringing every last tremor from me. By the time I come down, I'm shaking, boneless, completely shattered. He stands slowly, kissing a path up my stomach, between my breasts, along my collarbone, until he's face to face with me again. He's breathing hard, but there's a softness in his eyes now. Something deeper than lust. It scares me a little. His hands frame my face, thumbs brushing gently along my cheeks. "You're incredible," he says softly, his forehead pressing to mine. "You are," I manage, my thoughts still scattered. Sensing my fog, he kisses me tenderly, erasing the need for words. My fingers tangle in his hair, and I press against him, already desperate to feel him inside me. His hardness throbs between us, and I'm stunned by his restraint. "Do you want this, Nicole?" he asks, pulling back to search my face. "More than anything I've ever wanted," I whisper, pushing him back until he lies on the bed. I straddle his lap and begin undoing every last button, from his shirt to his trousers. My fingers skim up his chest, and the taut muscles jump under my touch. He's chiseled like a god, carved from stone just for me. I shove his shirt off his shoulders. He sits up just enough to fling it to the floor. In a romance-themed observation show, several participants undergo a series of interactions and conflicts filled with love, misunderstandings, and power struggles. In the end, one couple rises to over...