But he always reciprocated.
When I’d taken him to the point he let out a hiss or some rough Russian word, his grip in my hair pulled my mouth away from him and me up to my feet, then he walked me backward to my bed.
Anticipation coiled like a hot wire in my stomach when my back hit the sheets. He started off slowly, pulling off the tiny or lacy panties I always put on for him. Then, he’d press his face between my legs, holding my thighs tightly, like this was something he’d always wanted, and he was afraid someone would take it away. He wouldn’t stop until I was digging my nails into his arms and shuddering with release.
He wore a condom the first night, but the next, he’d gotten me so hot, so desperate, to feel him bare inside I’d begged for, “Just the tip.” The tip had become a few more inches, and then we were just fucking.
He liked to take me from behind, sometimes with me on all fours, sometimes kneeling, with my back pressed to his front and his hands on my breasts. I loved it any way, but he was right—my favorite was missionary. With his arms braced on the bed beside me, with his stomach muscles tightening every thrust, and the intensity in his eyes burning into mine.
Trying to be semi-responsible, I didn’t beg him to come inside me again. He always pulled out, coming on a new part of my body every time. And then, for a moment, we just breathed, heavy puffs against each other’s skin. While still breathless, he kissed me, short and sweet, before pulling me to the bathroom and starting the shower.
He washed the come off my body, and then he washed my hair. I’d never shampooed my hair so much in my life—my hairstylist was going to kill me—but surely, if she’d had this man’s hands in her hair just once, she’d understand.
When he was done, he’d kiss me under the spray of the water. Until I was panting and begging for him to fuck me.
But he never did.
I knew he wanted to. He was hard, letting out a tortured rumble when I wrapped my hand around him, but he would only slow the kiss and step away from me.
I loved when he got a phone call, because when he did, he would stay longer. He’d sit on the divan in my room talking in Russian while he watched me comb my hair, rub lotion on my skin, and get dressed in some slinky thing I was dying for him to give in and take back off. The heat of his gaze followed my every movement, leaving my skin sensitive and hyperaware. As soon as he finished his conversation, he’d leave, when I was already impatient for him to return.
I hadn’t had a man in my personal space since Antonio, and even then, he’d never washed my hair, gone down on me half as much as this one did, or watched me with a look in his eyes that made me burn.
I could get used to it.
And that scared me.
Thursday morning at yoga, Val was prattling about the new guy she was seeing. The instructor had already threatened to kick us out twice for talking and we were working toward a third. In my defense, I was hardly involved in the conversation because I was stuck in some Christian-induced dreamland.
Last night, as his hands had been working shampoo through my hair, I’d asked him if he had a weird hair fetish. His reply was, “Only for yours.”
“Why?” I’d asked breathlessly.
“I love your hair, malyshka. It’s the first part of you I saw—the back of your head at your wedding. And then you turned around and looked right at me. But you weren’t looking at me—you were looking past me, toward your new husband, with this infatuated glow in your eyes. The first woman I wanted to look at me was too busy staring at another man. That was when I started to hate him—and I still do, even though he is dead”—his voice roughened with a slight accent—“because he got that look from you, and I never have.”
“So, who’s the lucky guy?” Val’s voice pulled me back to reality.
“What?”
“Oh, come on. You’ve had this post-orgasmic look on your face all morning.”
“Shh,” I whispered when the instructor shot us a glare.
“Fine. Don’t tell me.” She crossed a leg over the other and stretched her torso. “It’s not like I don’t share everything with you. Though I guess I did forget to tell you I finally made it all the way
with Christian.”
My heart stopped. And the look I gave her could kill.
She smirked. “And that answers that question.”
I’d just gotten played. Though, it made me realize, the mere idea of Val sleeping with Christian disturbed me more than it should have.
“God, you’re such a bitch.”
She laughed.
“All right, ladies, out! This is a sanctuary, and you’ve shit all over it this morning.”