I cling to him like that’ll keep me from dissolving into the ether.“Good girl,” he growls repeatedly. “So fucking beautiful when you take my cock…”If I didn’t have a praise kink before, I do now. It’s one thing to be desired as a physical object—it’s another thing entirely to feel like he’d fuck my soul if he could.And who’s to say he isn’t? Judging by the way he’s groaning, he’s in me deeper than he’s ever been in anyone before.Tremors ripple through my limbs and center in my core; the aftershocks make him groan again and again.Good.I love making him groan.“Keep… keep doing that,” he rasps against my throat.My swollen lips curve in a wicked smile. “Doing… this?”I rock my hips and squeeze around him again.“Keep that up and I’ll fill you with my cum right this fucking second, baby.”He grabs my ass, his fingers digging in as he guides me to the rhythm he wants. I’m biting his shoulder, feeling another eye-rolling orgasm building up inside me.The more I move, the more he move
“Very naughty girl.” He nips the underside of that breast before kissing a trail to my right one, where he does it all over again.“Pasha,” I hear myself whine. “Pasha, please…”Those strong hands smooth down my back until they hook into the waistband of my sweatpants and panties. He doesn’t let go of my nipple with his mouth as he slides both items down my thighs and drops them in a pile at our feet.Part of me feels so self-conscious about the changes in my body. My stomach is fuller, my breasts are larger—hell, I think my thighs have grown a bit thicker, too. I’m not the woman he first undressed in that storage closet.But just when I’m ready to plaster a self-conscious hand in front of my belly, Pasha seizes my wrist in a grasp firm enough to shock a surprised little yelp out of me.“If you think for even one second I’m letting you hide any part of yourself from me, you’re fucking delusional,” he snarls. “I want to see all of you. Every last, beautiful inch.”He descends with kiss
DAPHNESeveral pierogies and a crisp salad later, Pasha and I are laughing over a joke he heard Mak tell one of his men. “It’s even better in Russian.” He sips on his water, still chuckling. “Fuck, I gotta remember that one for Sofi.”“Do you speak Russian?” Almost immediately, I want to kick myself for asking such a stupid question. “I mean, I hear you say a few words and phrases sometimes, but…”“But am I fluent? Yes.” He sets his glass back down and smiles at me with all the warmth I wish he’d have every day. Asya was right: his stomach is a direct road to the best version of him. “I was born here in America, as were Sofi and Mak. But our father insisted we go back and visit frequently. He wanted to keep us rooted in both worlds, Old and New.”“You must have loved it.”Pasha thinks about it for a moment. “For the most part, yeah. Especially at Christmastime. The lights on the snow… I’d be bundled up so tight, I couldn’t put my arms down below my waist. But it was worth it.”I try t
I grab a serving platter for her to put the pierogies in, thinking she’s going to fry the rest of them up. But she shakes her head with that signature grin and hands me the spoon.“Nyet, you need to do this. I can tell you how, but you won’t learn until you do it yourself.”“Know any good Russian takeouts?” I joke as I accept the spoon. She playfully whips a kitchen towel at my butt and goes back to assembling the salad.I have to admit, I’m really enjoying this. All of this. The cooking, the learning how to actually cook, but most of all… Asya herself. She’s the perfect example of everything I’ve never had with my own mother: loving, compassionate, with a great sense of humor and the patience of a saint.And the way she treats me? I can’t dwell too much on it without feeling my eyes start to sting with unshed tears. I always knew I was missing something in my relationship with my mother; I just never had a good basis of comparison to identify what.Now, I do.And as nice as it is to
DAPHNEAn hour later, Asya and I are busting up laughing while I utterly fail at stuffing the dough for meaty pierogies. I’m either overfilling or rolling the dough too thin, because the membrane keeps breaking no matter how delicately I handle it.“You’re doing much better than I did when I first learned!” Asya exclaims while watching me struggle with joining the seams of my second attempt. “The trick is being able to measure a balance with your eyes. And better a thick dough than a broken one, yes?”“So what do I do with this… this… whatever the hell this is?” I laugh as I hold up my sad attempt at international cuisine.She plucks it from my hand and lays it out on the counter. “Take it apart and try again. Smaller meat, thicker dough.”“But what if it looks bad? Or it’s too small compared to the others?”“Then we eat it as a tester. Always test your cooking before serving, moya docha. Better a fat chef than a skinny husband.”I damn near choke on my own spit when she says that. Hu
“Th-thank you,” I stammer again. While waiting for it to cool, I watch her slide the slice of honey cake toward me before she carves out her own. “So, uh… what has Pasha been telling you about me?”Asya smiles at me knowingly. “Worried what I must think about you? Some random young lady who got pregnant with my son’s baby and is now living in his home?”I blush more, but she’s pretty much hit the nail on the head, so I nod reluctantly.“I should be the one thanking you, docha.”Safe to say that’s not at all what I’m expecting. “Sorry?”Asya laughs. “I’ve been so worried about that boy. All work and no play turns anyone into an absolute ogre. I love my Pasha dearly, but he was becoming unbearable.” She gives me a sideways smile full of warmth and mischief. “Until he met you. So yes, I am very thankful to you, and for you.”This is definitely not the interaction I expected to have with his mother. I mean, I’m not sure what all I really was expecting, but this warmth and kindness and ove