Her thighs clamped around his head before she could stop them—a spasm, involuntary, the aftershock ripping through her cunt while his tongue stayed flat and unmoving against her clit. Too much. The pressure bordered on pain, a raw nerve exposed to air, and she made a sound she didn't recognize. Half whimper, half gasp. Her fingers twisted in his dark hair, knuckles white, but she didn't pull. Couldn't. The table beneath her was the only solid thing left in the world, mahogany cool against her sweat-slicked palms, and somewhere above her the lamp swung faintly, casting light in slow arcs across the ceiling.
He groaned against her flesh.
The vibration traveled through her clit, up her spine, into the base of her skull. Her hips jerked. A second tremor, smaller than the first but sharper, made her cunt clench around nothing. She was empty and oversensitive and still so fucking wet she could feel herself dripping onto the table beneath her. His groan had been satisfaction. Ownership. Like her orgasm belonged to him, like every pulse of her cunt was something he'd earned.
"Roman—" Her voice cracked. His name came out wrecked.
He didn't answer. His tongue moved again, slower now, lapping through her slick folds with deliberate, unhurried strokes. Not pushing for another climax. Just tasting. Just feeling her tremble against his mouth while his hands held her thighs apart, thumbs pressing bruises into the soft flesh where her legs met her body. The scrape of his stubble against her inner thigh was fire. She could smell herself on his breath, musky and sharp, and beneath it the lemon wax of the table, his cologne, the salt of her own sweat.
Her hand in his hair tightened. She wasn't pulling him away. She was holding him there, anchoring herself to the only thing that made sense anymore. His mouth. His hunger. The way he consumed her like he'd been starving for years and she was the first meal he'd been allowed to touch. Every stroke of his tongue said *mine*. Every groan vibrated through her cunt and said *finally*.
When he finally pulled back, the loss of heat made her gasp. Cold air hit her wet flesh. She looked down and found his pale blue eyes already fixed on her face, dark in a way she'd never seen them—pupils blown wide, the iris nearly swallowed. His chin glistened. His lips were swollen, slick with her, and he didn't wipe his mouth. He let her see what she'd done to him. What he'd taken from her.
"Again."
Not a question. Not a request. A command delivered in that low, Russian-thickened voice that bypassed her brain entirely and went straight to her cunt. Her body responded before her mind could catch up—hips tilting, thighs spreading wider, a fresh pulse of wetness slicking her folds. She watched his eyes drop to watch it happen. Watched his tongue sweep across his lower lip.
"I can't," she breathed. But her hand was still in his hair, and she wasn't pushing him away.
He didn't argue. He lowered his mouth again, and she felt his breath hot against her clit, and her entire body went rigid with anticipation. His tongue touched her—just the tip, just a flick—and she sobbed. Too sensitive. Too raw. But her hips bucked toward his face, and her cunt clenched, and the sob became a moan before she could choke it back.
He stayed there, mouth hovering, breath teasing, while she shook apart above him. Then his tongue pressed flat against her clit, and her vision went white at the edges, and she heard herself say his name again—*Roman, Roman, Roman*—like a prayer to a god she'd never believed in until tonight.
Her thighs trembled around his ears. The lamp swung. His hands held her open, and his mouth devoured her, and she stopped trying to separate pleasure from pain because there was no separation anymore. There was only him, on his knees, giving her what she'd never known how to ask for.
He rose from his knees like a man rising from prayer, his hands sliding up her thighs, over her hips, around her waist, lifting her off the table before she could register the loss of his mouth. She gasped—half protest, half surprise—and her legs locked around his waist automatically, her slick cunt pressing against the rough fabric of his slacks. The table edge bit into her palms for a second, then nothing, just his arms under her, carrying her across the dining room like she weighed nothing.
The armchair caught her back, leather cool and smooth against her sweat-slicked skin. He didn't set her down gently. He dropped her, let her bounce once, and she landed with her legs still wrapped around him, her bare ass against the worn leather, his cock still trapped in his slacks and pressing against her thigh. Her hands found his shoulders, gripping the fabric of his dress shirt, and she looked up at him—this man who had just knelt between her thighs, who had just devoured her like a starving thing, who was now standing over her with something raw and unguarded in his pale eyes.
He didn't sit. He stood there, breathing hard, his chest rising and falling under the wrinkled white shirt, his jaw tight, his hands still on her hips. The lamp light cast his face in shadow and gold, and she could see the scar above his left eyebrow more clearly from here, a thin white line that cut through the dark hair. His chin was still wet. She watched him not wipe it off.
"You're shaking," she said. Her voice came out rough, scraped raw by the moans she'd been making.
He didn't answer. His hands moved from her hips to her thighs, spreading them wider, settling her deeper into the chair. The leather creaked beneath her. Her cunt was still exposed, still slick, still clenching around nothing, and she watched his eyes drop to the space between her legs and stay there. His tongue swept across his lower lip, tasting her again.
"I want to watch you touch yourself." The words came out low, almost a growl, his accent thickening the edges. "I want to see what you do when I'm not there."
Her breath caught. A fresh pulse of wetness slicked her thighs. She should say no. She should push him away, reclaim some piece of the ground she'd lost tonight. But her hand was already moving, sliding down her stomach, over the curve of her hip, her fingers finding her own slick folds. She was so wet she could feel it on her fingertips before she even touched her clit.
His eyes never left her hand. He watched her fingers circle her clit, watched her hips tilt into her own touch, watched her bite her lower lip to hold back a moan. His own hand moved to his slacks, palming himself through the fabric, and she heard his breath hitch—a small sound, barely audible, but she caught it. The sound of his control cracking.
"Like this?" she asked, her voice thin, her fingers moving faster. "Is this what you wanted to see?"
"Yes." The word came out rough. His hand tightened on his cock through the fabric. "But slower. I want to watch you take your time. I want to watch you make yourself come."