Page 41 of Kept in the Dark (Hitmen of Ulysses #2)

His hand traces a path down my body, leaving goosebumps in its gentle wake, and he guides my legs apart.

It opens me up, exposing me to the cool air and making me shiver with the temperature change.

Our eyes are locked as his fingertips brush against my clit.

I inhale sharply, my face warping with the rush of sensations.

Every muscle in my stomach quivers with anticipation.

“Fuck,” he growls. A flurry of Russian words spills from his lips. “Tvoye telo prekrasno, ono gotovitsya ko mne. Ty tak khorosho menya primesh’.”

I ache to know what he’s saying, because whatever it is, it sounds reverent . Poetry. A prayer. An ode to the silky wetness of my body and the way it feels to him.

And for my part, my pussy clenches around nothing, feeling so deeply empty that I’m half-insane with it.

The movement that muscle spasm causes creates friction against the fingers he holds still, but it’s not enough, and it’s not in the right place.

I roll my hips, trying to help him find that spot on my clit where I desperately need him .

“Is that where you like it?” he asks, switching back over to English. “There?”

His blunt fingertips strum against the hard little bump of my clitoris, and my body jerks against his hand. A breathy noise escapes me, mostly blowing out my nose, and I search his gaze as he searches mine. I nod.

“Yes, you like that,” he whispers, almost more to himself. The rasp of his skin against the most sensitive part of me is a tactile feast for my nerves.

Those fingers start moving down, exploring further until I have to spread my thighs to make room so he can find the entrance he’s looking for. “What about here?”

I whimper and nod again, my head bobbing without a single thought other than yes, more.

“Do you want me inside here?” he asks. His stare is hypnotizing.

“So bad,” I moan.

I feel one finger swirling around, collecting moisture, before it plunges inside me. His thumb settles against my clit, applying pressure firmly. My hips buck against him as my lower belly spasms.

Of course, he’d touch me like this—confidently and intentionally. I shudder.

When I whine a moan, the pressure of his thumb gentles. “Are you sensitive?”

“Not that sensitive. More,” I whisper the demand.

Maybe because I’m not that sensitive, I’ve always been a girl who likes a little pain with her pleasure—it centers me, helps me focus, works in synchronization with the good feelings to make everything feel more intense.

His hands are so big, with fingers long enough to stroke deeper inside of me than some of my previous partners could have hoped to reach.

I make throaty noises as he finds a rhythm, stroking and pumping.

The firm pressure on those hypersensitive nerve endings almost hurts because it feels so good, and my eyes drift shut at the pleasure of it.

With so many sensations to focus on, I forget about his other hand until it tightens around a fistful of hair. The slight sting makes me gasp. Fuck, I love a man’s hand in my hair almost as much as I love it around my neck. I grasp at his chest, feeling immobilized.

“I want you to look at me, Nicole.” His icy blue eyes are colorless in the dark as they rake across my face, collecting and cataloging each of my expressions.

A second finger probes my opening, and I cry out as the first, already inside, strokes a spot that makes electricity shoot outward, through all my limbs.

The second finger is a stretch, and he twists them together as he pumps.

I feel him pressing against the tight space, exploring and massaging, and I almost come just from the knowledge that he’s preparing me to take his giant fucking cock.

When I feel a third finger, a musical whimper blows out of me. I tense and clutch at his shoulders.

“Shhh,” he croons. “Relax. You can take another finger.”

I moan, thrashing my head. It already feels like so much. Too much.

“You will. You must ,” he says sternly, stroking so deep and filling me so full that I’m about to lose my damn mind. “You cannot take me if you cannot take another finger.”

I gasp at that, and it melts into a long noise that’s almost a sob as he works that third finger inside me. His thumb stills against my clit as I adjust to the additional pressure, taking in a few shuddering breaths. My fingernails dig into the hardness of his shoulders.

“That’s it. Good girl. I knew you could take it.”

Good girl ? Okay, I love some good, dirty praise, but hearing it in his controlled, deep, accented voice… I would melt if I wasn’t so sure I was on the precipice of combustion .

With three of his fingers crammed deep inside me, his chest hair brushing against my hard, sensitive nipples, and his swirling thumb bringing my body higher and higher, my stomach clenches as that familiar, building sensation grips me from inside.

I try to move against him, but the fingers in my hair that I forgot about tighten, anchoring me.

“That’s it,” he rasps. “Are you going to come? Tell me. Speak.”

“Yes!” I blurt out at his demand. “Keep doing that, right there. Just like that.” There’s a desperation to my voice as I chase the orgasm that’s hovering just at the edge of my physical awareness.

I’m not sure if it’s that he’s good at taking direction, or he’s just unlike the vast majority of men who hear “right there, just like that” and decide to change the pace or position of their fingers, but he keeps his touch there, and keeps doing just that.

All other thoughts fall away as I zero in on the sensations, reducing my world to just the two of us.

It builds and builds, and I’m soaring. “I’m…”

That’s all I get out, before the world crashes back down around me in a jumbled mass of color, light, sounds, and sensations that feel conflicting and nonsensical—hard, soft, pointy, flat… I lose myself as my body shakes, tightening and loosening around the intrusion of his touch.

I’ve barely come back into consciousness when he withdraws his fingers and moves his hips between my thighs. My legs flop to the side to make room.

“I cannot wait any longer,” he growls.

“Yes,” I moan, still panting as I come down. I tilt up my pelvis for him because I need more, even though I’m still throbbing from my last release.

He rears back, looming over me on his knees in a way that casts his entire face in shadow. I wish he were closer; I want his weight on me, or at the very least, I wish I’d turned on the damn light so I could look at him if he’s going to be so far away. Improve my view .

He grips my waist with both hands, adjusting himself between my legs, draping them almost obscenely over his rock-hard thighs.

Rough palms, hard grip, fingers digging into soft flesh…

his touch locks me in place, and it’s nowhere near enough contact.

He cups himself to aim the thick, rounded, blunt head at my entrance.

“This is it, Nicole—your only chance to say no before I make you mine. Tell me to stop; I will stop. Now. Or never.”

I suck my lower lip into my mouth and resolutely shake my head. “Don’t you dare stop.”

I want to be taken, to become his, for however brief the moment will be. I know he just means physically, but my heart aches with how much I want it to mean more—scary and ominous and sincere as that is.

“Then relax for me.” He works himself through my slit, coating the velvety, smooth length of him in a way that makes me shiver with need, then lines himself up at my entrance.

Reclaiming his grip on my waist, he pulls me towards him with both hands and pushes forward at the same time.

It’s just enough that the tip of him nudges inside.

In spite of all that wetness, in spite of the languid, relaxing feeling left over in my muscles from my first mind-blowing orgasm… it’s a fucking stretch.

“Oh my God,” I whimper.

“Relax,” he repeats, adding more force to his voice through gritted teeth. But his thumbs stroke against the bottom of my ribcage, an unspoken apology for the harsh tone.

I try, but he’s so thick that I can’t help but tense against the intrusion. I feel my body resist as he forces me open around him. He was right to use three fingers—I’ve never been so thoroughly filled. It stings a bit.

But he doesn’t push inside me all at once. With the last shred of his control, he holds me still and nudges forward slowly, letting me feel every stretching inch as it parts me .

He’s trying to let me adjust, I know, but my muscles have ideas of their own, fluttering around him, and he groans.

He pauses, gives me a moment, then shifts his hips back.

His first thrust is shallow, slow, and he watches me so carefully that I know he’s still not convinced I’m not going to call the whole thing off.

I can feel myself molding around him, conforming to every ridge and vein. A perfect fit.

“Fuuuck,” I wheeze as the air squeezes from my lungs.

It’s a lot. It’s almost too much. And I love every damn bit of it. Tears prickle behind my eyes. I cry out as he hits my cervix, and his hip bones touch my inner thighs.

His penetration is so absolute, it feels life-altering.

How can I ever be the same after knowing how full I can be of someone?