Heather Guerre

Preferential Treatment 

Becca

“Please,” he said softly. That deep, graveled, Russian accent coasted over her senses like the rasp of calloused hands. Mikhail’s eyes searched her face, growing heated as he observed her response. “Please, knyazhna. Own me.”

“Knyazhna. It is a royal title. For a princess.”

“Forgive me, knyazhna,” he breathed against her skin, lips sliding higher up her calf. “I’m sorry. Let me please you.”

Apparently she was a very soft domme, but she sensed that she was not being paid for softness.

Mikhail ate her out like she was the one paying him. Like his life depended on it. Like giving her pleasure was the only thing keeping the world spinning. He brought her near the peak again and again, letting her get a little closer and a little closer, until her whole body was sheened with sweat, trembling all over, and her breaths were coming in desperate, keening gasps.

She wasn’t a cold, cruel mistress. Not a remote, untouchable goddess. She was his princess, yego knyazhna. She was feminine and powerful, capricious and playful, sweet and dangerous. He could still taste her on his tongue, and he wanted nothing more than to drag her back here and make her come on his face again and again and again.

His submission prioritized her pleasure, and in return, she was desperate to return the feeling.

The abject fear of ever letting herself be dependent on somebody else’s care battled fiercely with the longing to be taken care of, to live in luxury without a single concern for money.

“No, no,” Mikhail said softly, and her heart sank. A second later, it rose again as he said, “You would keep me, knyazhna.”

Even so, the sight of his seed dripping out of her filled him with a feral pleasure he’d never experienced before. He’d given that to her—or she’d taken it from him. If she wanted, she could secretly take out that IUD and tie them together forever. The idea of being trapped like that, by Kate, sent an unexpected lance of sharp arousal through him.

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