Chapter 8

Stella

I can’t sleep.

I lay in the guest room, tossing and turning, my mind racing. I replay my last encounter with Michael over and over, reveling in every memory.

I’m naked still, which is apparently my new thing. The brush of the sheets on my bare skin reminds me of his hands. The way they roamed across me, explored me…the way his tongue felt inside of me.

I growl in frustration.

Why does such an amazing body have to come attached to such an asshat? Or vice versa? Whatever—the point being, he’s a dick.

A dick with a huge, amazing dick. Try sorting that one out.

I can’t stop thinking about his cock. The way it felt in my hand and, better yet, the way it felt sliding between my lips.

How it throbbed, how badly I wanted it inside of me. It’s like a twisted version of counting sheep.

One, two, three throbbing dicks…

Only, it definitely isn’t helping me sleep.

I roll to my side for what seems like the hundredth time, visions of cocks still dancing around my head. I lick my lips, trying to see if I can still taste him there.

Finally, I give up, throwing the comforter aside to stand.

I pace the length of the room, plush carpet muffling my steps.

What on earth am I going to do about this man?

He’s a bossy, controlling ass. I can barely stand talking to him—he’s that infuriating.

Earlier though, I didn’t mind being controlled. It’s a fact that’s still surprising to me. I wouldn’t have thought it possible, but the feeling of being shoved onto that table, of being spanked?

Pure ecstasy. I feel myself getting wet again at the memory.

I guess you learn something new every day.

It’s cold outside of the bed. My nipples stand completely erect. Goosebumps begin to spring up across my bare skin.

I fantasize about the day that I can finally go home. I fantasize about finding his room and crawling into bed with him. I have absolutely no idea which holds more appeal.

I decide to get back into bed instead, pulling the blankets up to my chin.

Four, five, six throbbing dicks…

Nope. Still not helping.

I don’t know how long I lay there, awake, thinking of cocks. Fantasizing that my door will open, and he’ll be there, ready for more.

Eventually, I suppose I fall asleep because the next time I open my eyes, light is shining through the curtains, and someone’s knocking on my door.

“Yes?” I ask, hesitant and excited.

I can no longer feel just one emotion at a time apparently.

“Can I come in?” he asks.

“It’s open.”

I don’t get up to greet him.

He comes in wearing nothing but boxers.

I swear the guy’s trying to kill me. The rays of light coming through the window seem to gravitate toward him, highlighting every muscle, accentuating his already golden complexion.

Great. Now I’m back to picturing him as a god.

I need help.

“So,” he says, “I was thinking, if you’re gonna be here for a while, we need to get you some clothes.”

“Clothes?”

I nearly jump out of the bed, instantly feeling bad for some of the things I thought last night. Maybe he really is a nice guy—the best in fact.

“Yeah. I’m getting pretty fucking sick of sharing mine.”

Or not.

Still, though.

CLOTHES!

I practically skip over to him, tits bouncing, hair flying. I haven’t been so excited since…well, yesterday, but still. I’m really excited.

“Okay, okay,” he says, like he’s talking to a child. “Calm down.”

Normally, I’d never let a man tell me to calm down, but I did just skip.

“Sorry.”

I’m not.

“Well, you’ll probably wanna take a shower first,” he says with a grin, “and then we’ll figure out something for you to wear while shopping.”

“Absolutely. Shower, then shopping. Got it.”

“Then, I’ll leave you to it.”

He looks me up and down once more before leaving, a twinkle in his eyes and mischief on his lips.

After he leaves, I run to the bathroom. No more men’s shirts, no more tie belts.

I’m going shopping!

I step under the hot water, mentally making a list of everything I want to buy—well, trying to anyway. To be honest, the image of him in his boxers has kind of distracted me. I’m fighting a losing battle, trying to think clothes when really, I’m back to picturing his cock.

Enough is enough.

I’m standing there, lathered hair, soapy skin, and frankly, I’m wet in more ways than one, when it finally dawns on me.

I can’t fight this.

I really don’t want to fight this.

It doesn’t even matter anymore that he’s an asshole. I don’t care how he talks to me or how arrogant he is.

I absolutely need to fuck this man.

I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to think straight again if I don’t. Obviously, I can’t spend the rest of my life dreaming about his cock.

I set out that night in Russia fully intending to lose my v-card.

Well, that’s exactly what I’m going to do.

I rinse off, completely certain what my next move is.

I’m going to fuck Michael.