Page 174 of Sexting the Pakhan

It doesn’t.

It only makes me more careful.

When he’s standing, I take his hand and guide him back down onto the couch. He watches me the whole time, that same dark, steady look that always feels like a hand on my skin.

“You’re not getting on top,” I say.

His brow lifts. “No?”

“No. I don’t trust you not to rip your stitches and bleed all over my living room.”

“That’s romantic.”

“I’m not trying to be romantic.”

“I noticed.”

I climb onto him before he can say anything else, one knee on either side of his good leg, keeping my weight off the injured one.The angle is awkward at first, and I can feel him tense under me as he adjusts.

“Does that hurt?” I ask.

“Yes.”

I stop.

He looks at me and adds, “Not enough to matter.”

“It matters to me,” I say softly.

He says nothing, but his hands settle more gently on my hips.

I undo his trousers and free his cock.

The sight of it makes heat rush through me again, low and immediate. Hard, flushed, already slick at the tip. I wrap my hand around him once, just because I want to feel him there, heavy and hot in my palm.

His head falls back against the couch. “Fuck, Zoya.”

I stroke him once more. Slow.

He grips my waist harder.

“You said I lead,” I remind him.

“Yes.”

“So behave.”

He laughs once under his breath. “That was never likely.”

I lift my skirt, shove my panties aside, and guide his cock to my pussy.

The first press of him against me almost makes my knees give.

I’m still wet from his mouth, still worked open, still aching for more. I lower myself slowly, bracing one hand on the back of the couch and the other on his shoulder, and the stretch of him pushing into me is so good I have to stop halfway just to breathe.

His hands clamp on my hips. “Easy,” he says, voice rough.

“Shhh,” I say.