Heather Guerre

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Becca

When his muffled pleading had shifted to mostly Russian, and he was just about to lose control, Kate let go of his cock. He let out a long, desperate, soul-deep groan, hands clenching and unclenching, hips rocking compulsively. The normally stoic, hard-faced man was flushed and glassy-eyed, totally sex drunk and utterly at Kate’s mercy.

“Please, please, I need to come. I need to. Knyazhna—” He growled with frustration as she lifted off of him entirely. “No, knyazhna, please, I’m sorry. Take me inside you. I’ll be good. Please, knyazhna. Please. I need—”

She clasped one hand around his throat, not tight, just a threat.

She liked that she felt safe with him, but also unstoppably powerful. Selfishly, she liked that he wanted to give her things, and that he did so without an ounce of prickish entitlement.

He reveled in debasing himself for her, suffering for her, whether she punished him through humiliation, pain, or denial. He found salvation in serving her, in earning the rewards she doled out with such unrestrained, playful joy. He’d heard this called “play” before, but with Kate, it was the first time it felt like any such thing.

He couldn’t have a heart attack right now—he was too busy seeing to his printsessa.

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.

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

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.

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

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.

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.

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

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

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

“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.”

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