Chapter 5

FUCK ME, BRUCHA.

Mr. Brucha paused for a heartbeat, then rose and stepped closer. His fingers worked the buttons of my top one by one. Each graze of his knuckles against my bare skin sent desires coiling through me, stirring something wild and impatient in my body.

He kept going until the fabric parted completely. My smooth, exposed back faced the man who showed no obvious zeal for what was coming. Yet I knew—he had to like what he saw.

Without turning, I reached back and unzipped my skirt, letting it slide down my legs to pool at my ankles. The new lace panties I’d bought this month—barely there, sinful—were all that remained.

I stepped out of the skirt and walked toward the bathroom, hips swaying with deliberate, feline grace across the cool mirrored tiles. Every curve was on display for him.

I pulled the bathroom door almost shut, knowing the bright suite light would silhouette me through the glass. Then I stripped off the last scrap of fabric and turned on the shower. Warm water cascaded over me, tracing glistening paths down my skin.

From the corner of my eye, I caught Brucha glancing—first at me, then back to the TV, both happening at once.

Whatever thoughts ran through his head, they couldn’t tarnish this moment. Not tonight. Even if he was a bishop, a pastor, a reverend father ready to preach repentance tonight, he wasn’t escaping what I had planned. Brucha was in deep trouble, and deep down, he knew it.

I lingered in the bathroom, soaping myself slowly—twice, as if I hadn’t bathed in weeks—just to let him enjoy the glorious view. Each time I glanced over, his eyes flicked away, feigning absorption in the screen. The pretense made me smile, low and private.

His saintly restraint was almost comical. I’d expected a normal man to join me, naked and urgent, pressing me against the tiles, fuck me hard as water poured over us both.

I bent to wash my ankles—already clean—angling my body so from behind he could see the fat sultry flesh between my thighs.

Besides the shower water, the trailing lines of wetness rippled down my thighs. And I was certain Brucha was probably throbbing beneath his clothes.

Here we go...

I shut off the water, dried off with slow, deliberate strokes, and walked out completely bare. His gaze locked on me instantly. Hunger flickered in his eyes, though he tried to bank it. I stopped right in front of him—close enough that my hardened nipples were a breath away from his face. I gave him a small, knowing smile, then slipped past and slid beneath the crisp white duvet.

Very clear—Brucha was distracted by the sight of a beautiful young body that has only tasted a man once in 21years.

“Do not sleep yet,” Brucha said, eyes fixed on the TV. “The food will be ready soon.”

A grin tugged at my lips. He was dodging the sight of me to keep himself in check, or just behaving his annoyingly dignified style.

The first time we’d been together, it was only pain, regret, tears. Now I craved the pleasure that could make even the most decent woman compromise.

“Alright…” I murmured, swallowing the “sir” that almost slipped out. I refused to feel small again.

“Aren’t you going to shower, Brucha?” The question came out bolder than I felt.

In my head, I’d already stripped him bare, traced my fingers along his thick length, taken him deep into my mouth like before. He’d held back then, but I’d sucked him until he spilled across my face, groaning my name.

The memory curved my lips in satisfaction. I wasn’t sure I had the stamina to match every fantasy tonight, but I was damn well going to try.

“I bathed before coming here,” he replied evenly.

I nodded, biting back irritation. Did he think I was filthy? I came here dirty? His calm only stoked the fire under my skin.

“What did you want to discuss?” I pressed. “I’m ready now. I’ll fall asleep soon.”

“After dinner.”

His answer grated again, echoing the same careful distance from our first night. My body hummed with need—skin prickling, thighs pressing together under the duvet. I imagined him lifting my legs high, folding me in half, driving deep until I cried out. I’d barely cried that first time; Kova had already drained every tear from me.

“We should talk now, Mr. Brucha. I don’t like being woken.” I tugged the duvet tighter, molding it to my curves as if chilled by the AC. In truth, I was burning with the hunger for sex.

“Alright.” He turned toward me.

“Come into the bed,” I said. “I don’t want to strain to hear you.”

“Ok, ma.” The respectful reply sent a thrill through me, reigniting that sense of control.

Brucha eased onto the mattress. I could see the thick erection straining against his trousers.

“Wouldn’t you take those off, gentleman?” I smiled, ready to be claimed.

He ignored the suggestion and settled beside me. I couldn’t wait any longer.

I reached over, palming his hardness through the fabric. He swelled under my touch, urgent and hot. I dragged the zipper down, eyes on his face. A flush crept up his neck, dark and telling.

I freed him, stroking slowly. Then I leaned in and took him into my mouth. He stiffened, a low sound escaping him—more controlled than the clumsy noises from before.

I worked him deeper, mimicking the rhythm I craved inside me. His composure cracked; eyelids heavy, breath ragged.

Suddenly he stopped me, gently pushing my head back. He shifted, guiding me to lie on my back. One leg hooked over his shoulder, opening me wide. He entered slowly—stretching me until I gasped. He was so long he couldn’t fit entirely despite hitting my end; I tensed, guiding him shallower.

Then he moved—steady, deep thrusts that made the room feel smaller, hotter. My body melted into pure sensation, slick and desperate. This was real pleasure, dangerous and consuming. My vision blurred at the edges.

“Fuck me, Brucha,” I breathed, even as he already was. My walls clenched around him, dripping, greedy.

He slowed, grinding hard against every sensitive spot. The pressure built—coiling, unbearable, exquisite. I hovered on the edge, body trembling.

Then his rhythm faltered. He pulled out, spilling on my stomach, chest heaving.

I wasn’t done.

I wanted more. I wanted everything— different styles; legs pinned high, hips tilted, taken from behind, every filthy style I’d watched in dirty movies. He owed me a night that lived up to every sinful promise.

We stared at each other—raw, connected, a little sheepish.

Brucha wasn’t leaving this suite until he’d given me every last drop in him.