When I squared my shoulders, the Russian’s nostrils flared—finally a hint of passion from him!
“Very nice. I hadn’t thought the view from the front could compete with the back.”
Wow. An actual compliment. My attention was drawn downward. A very large erection pressed against the material of his slacks. Muy grande. Maybe too big? For all my fooling around, I’d only had intercourse with Edward, and he was nowhere near as well endowed.
“Continue.”
Strip totally? Deciding against that, I stepped forward, straddling him. I rested my knees beside his hips, my hands on his shoulders. A breeze from the ocean drifted in, mingling with his intoxicating scent—a blend of sandalwood and simmering man. His scent made me tremble—it was like an unfair advantage, used to drug new escorts.
When I lowered myself atop the thick ridge of his cock, I could feel his heat even through our clothes. My eyes went wide; his narrowed.
I’d be taking his length inside me directly. The idea no longer filled me with hesitation. I shivered with desire. My nipples puckered even tighter, right before his eyes.
I wanted this man, this stranger.
I could count on one hand the number of guys who’d gotten me off. Most times had been accidental when I’d been fumbling in the backseat with a boy or grinding one at a keg party. Edward had never gotten close. Not that he’d cared. But this Russian—
“I did not invite you to straddle me,” he snapped. His body went tense—angry tense.
I froze with confusion. Most guys liked it when topless girls straddled them.
“You just assume I wanted you atop me?” He couldn’t sound more cutting. He grabbed me, lifting me to the side—as if to fling my body off him.
Yet then he stilled. His hands were so big on me, his fingers covered a good bit of my ass. After a hesitation—when we seemed suspended in the moment—he began to knead me. When he lowered his hands to grip my curves, a low groan escaped him. But he still held me upright.
Again, something was happening that I didn’t understand, as if some inner battle were being played out. In my lust-dimmed mind, I wondered if he tied women up and fucked them from behind because he didn’t like to touch too much of them.
Just when I’d decided that was the case, I found myself settled back over him, the raised bulge of his cock directly between my legs. Had I won this round?
His anger seemed to have been put on hold, but he wasn’t ready to concede defeat. “You still refuse to give me what I want?”
And he was going along with my refusal? Emboldened, I leaned in next to his ear. “I’m going to give you what you need, Ruso.” The wine and my arousal were making my own accent thicken even more. My stiffened nipples brushed the fine cashmere of his sweater, which felt incredible, so I skimmed them again.
What would it take to get this man’s mouth on my breasts? When I imagined him sucking me . . . a soft moan escaped my lips, my back subtly arching.
He clamped his hand over my nape. “What kind of escort brazenly denies a client? You’re either starving at this job—or making a fortune. . . .” He trailed off when I rolled my hips, running my pussy over his cock, with only my moistened panties and his slacks between us.
I gasped at the sensation, breaths shallowing. My clitoris began to throb.
He drew his hands away, resting his arms over the back of the couch again, as if he’d made a conscious decision not to touch me. I got the impression that I was being tested somehow—or that he was. “Put your hands behind your back. Now.”
He probably expected me to clasp my elbows. “Of course.” Instead, I dropped my hands directly behind my ass, grasping high on his thighs to hold my balance.
He tensed again, but before he could say another word, I whipped my hips over his length. My head fell back as I moaned. I’d forgotten how irresistible sexual play could be, had forgotten about uncontrollable urges and the hardness of a man’s body.
I faced the Russian, beginning to ride him. Though his gaze was rapt on our point of contact, he refused to move his own hips to meet me. No matter. The bulge of his zipper had lined up with my swollen clitoris, my soaked panties rubbing that bud. Fricción! Sultry, damp friction . . . sent me ever closer to orgasm. Soon I was panting, grinding him like a pole dancer.
He clutched the couch, his long fingers gone white-knuckled. “Is this what you think I need?” His voice alone could make me come. The husky timbre had only deepened. “To be ridden?”
“I think you need passion.” I certainly did.
“Maybe if it wasn’t feigned.”
I nearly laughed. “Oh, I’m not feigning anything.” How to tell him I would climax soon?
“Wait.” He seized my shimmying hips, holding me still. “Up.”
Confused, I put my hands on his shoulders and rose up on my knees. Was he kicking me off again? Then I followed his narrow-eyed gaze.
His slacks, which probably cost thousands, now had a damp spot over his groin. I’d wetted him through my panties.
I should have been worried about his reaction, but I was too far gone to care. I dropped as low as his hands would allow, wanting my pussy back atop his hot hardness.
He grated, “Blyad´!” Whatever that meant. “You’re truly wet for me. Very wet. You’ve been using me to get off?”
“Por Dios, why are you talking so much?” I said between breaths. “Want to come, Ruso.”
He blinked at me. The cool, detached Russian looked stunned. “Then by all means.” He released his grip. “Continue.”