“You okay?” he asked. “Yeah,” I said and then frowned. “What’s wrong?” “Nothing. I just put my hand in something wet.” Zahariev chuckled. “Given how many times I made you come, it’s probably yours.” I blushed, though I wasn’t embarrassed. It was more from the memory of it, the deep, exquisite pleasure he’d given me. “Well, you were short by one,” I said. “But eight isn’t bad.” He looked at me, unamused. “You are such a fucking brat,” he said. “You like it,” I said. “I do,” he agreed, grasping my jaw and pulling me close. “But next time, I’m going to fuck you like I don’t.” I licked my lips.
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