“Care to share what just happened that made us run from the boutique?” he asks once we're far enough away not to be overheard.
I turn around to make sure no one is around, pull my skirt up, and tug his hand down to press it onto my wet panties. Mikhail inhales sharply as he massages me with his palm, making me whimper. Without removing his hand, he takes a step forward and then another, guiding me backward until my back hits the wall.
“It looks like you missed me.” He moves my panties to the side and places his finger at my entrance. “Did you, little lamb?”
I nod, put my hands on his chest, and slide them down until they reach his crotch.
“Good,” he whispers, then crashes his mouth to mine at the same time he thrusts his finger deep inside me. “Here? Or home?”
Based on the sound of his voice and how hard his cock is under my palm, he doesn’t like the home option any more than I do.
“Here,” I whisper, not quite believing what I’m saying.
Mikhail grabs me by my thighs and lifts me. I wrap my legs around his waist, put my arms around his neck, and trail kisses down his neck as he walks to the ladies’ restroom on the left. After a quick check of the stalls, he locks the door and carries me toward the wide marble counter with sinks.
I squirm as the bare skin of my backside connects with the cold stone, but the unpleasant sensation is quickly forgotten because I am too focused on removing my panties.
“You’ve fucked up my head so completely, Bianca.” He grabs my hips and buries himself inside me in one swift motion. “I can’t think straight anymore.”
This. The feeling of him filling me so completely makes me want to scream in delight. There is nothing better. Mikhail’s cock is huge, just like the rest of him, and I enjoy the sensation of my walls stretching to accommodate his size. Placing his hand at the back of my neck, he slides out slowly, then slams back into me. I gasp. Then smile.
“Harder,” I urge.
The hand at the back of my neck moves upward, grabbing a handful of hair.
“Like this?” he asks, and slams into me again.
“Yes.” I grip the side of the marble counter with all my strength, wrap my legs around his hips and lean back as Mikhail destroys me, piece by little piece. And the destruction has never felt better.
Chapter 16
When Mikhail said we would be having dinner with the pakhan’s wife, I expected a detached, perfectly dressed Russian woman who, most likely, would ignore me the entire evening. Nina Petrova is the complete opposite of what I anticipated, in her torn jeans, flowy blouse, and a small silver nose ring.
“Don’t you dare, Roman. I mean it!” Nina pokes her husband’s chest, staring daggers at him, then turns to me. “He’s been following me around the house for two months like I’m going to trip over my feet and fall down the stairs as if I’m some simpleton.”
She takes my hand and leads me across the large entry room toward the hallway on the right side of the house.
“We’ll be in the kitchen. Mikhail said Bianca has a mean recipe for pasta, so maybe she’ll share it with Igor,” Nina calls over her shoulder. “If I see you anywhere near the east wing, I’m going to end you, Roman.”
It’s rather funny, seeing this petite woman threatening her hulk of a husband. Petrov doesn’t say a thing as he stands there, leaning on his cane, and watches us leave.
“Since I told him I’m pregnant, Roman has become unbearable with his mother hen behavior,” she says while we walk down the hallway. “So, you and Mikhail . . . how’s it going with you two?”
I just smile a little and nod. Usually, the people who meet me for the first time tend to keep quiet like there is no point in starting a conversation. Nina isn't like that at all. It’s . . . strangely refreshing.
“Okay, now please, try to keep an open mind. It’s not as bad as it looks,” she says and opens the double doors in front of us.
The first thing I hear is a deep voice yelling in Russian, then two more female voices joining the yelling match, followed by a sound of clanking silverware. I enter the kitchen after Nina and stop in my tracks, staring.
A huge man in his sixties, wearing a white apron and standing in front of the stove, is motioning to the black smoke billowing out of the oven and shouting at the girl on the other side of the kitchen island. Behind him, another girl is hitting his back with a rag. And in the corner, an older woman with short grey hair is yelling at the cook while threatening him with a sauce-dripping spoon.