His deep voice drips with unveiled anger, and I don’t think it’s due to the pain I’m causing. It sounds more raw and intrusive. More…hurt. That’s when it hits me. Earlier, when he demanded that I apologize for leaving him, I thought it was some sort of a power play, and I hated him for it. But now that I get a clear look beneath his mask, I’m tempted to believe that he was actually hurt. The mighty Kirill Morozov was in pain because of me. I have to stop myself from blurting the apology that’s trying to burst through. Instead, I jerk him up and down in an attempt to reawaken his pleasure.
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