Yuri had expected her to push.
It was in her nature—a spoiled brat, defiant, unrelenting in her need to test him, to find the chink in his armor and pry it open with delicate, manicured fingers. But this—this—was pushing boundaries that could lose him his job whether her obeyed, or disobeyed.
Standing before getting his command to do so was a mistake, and he was made to pay the price for it. Again he was commanded to his knees, this time in tandem with her own rising that brought back the flats of her feet to the floor, and her slender legs to carry her up. Clearly, he was irritated, the annoyance on his face difficult to hide as brows furrowed and open eyes nearly closed into tighter slits in gazing at her. She was, for the first time, succeeding in actually getting under his skin.
Yet he had to obey nontheless.
As he lowered, to both knees this time, she stood before him, so much smaller than he was yet utterly fearless, wielding her own body as both bait and blade. For now, she had the height advantage. The room held its breath as she lifted her dress, as smooth, supple skin was revealed inch by maddening inch. Her legs—long, toned, sculpted by years of meticulous discipline—her hips, her stomach, every curve a deliberate temptation. "Ms. Volkov--" An immediate attempt to protest what was to come;
But then—the final blow.
Her fingers toyed with the thin lace of her thong, lifting it just enough for the elastic to bite when she let go. The soft snap was deafening in the silence. Shutting him up before the rest of his words could complete.
Yuri remained utterly still.
But his pulse—his blood—betrayed him.
She was watching him. Hunting for that flicker of weakness, that slip in his carefully maintained restraint. She wanted him to react. To stumble. To break. His teeth the culprit that would put him on the path. The demand settled between them like a slow-burning fuse, poised to explode.
For a long, weighted moment, he said nothing. He did not move. The air was thick, heavy, charged with something neither of them could ignore. His dark eyes, usually so unreadable, dragged over her body with slow, deliberate scrutiny. If she wanted to play this game, he had no choice but to participate. "Your father would not approve." A warning, subtle, but poignant, that she was risking pissing her father off as much as she was risking Yuri's own job.
But perhaps, with his cock's tightening in his pants as it grew and hardened in betrayal, that was tomorrow's problem.
Then, he moved.
He leaned forward—close enough for her to feel his breath on her inner thighs. His fingers found her skin, not rough, not harsh, but firm as he pried her hand away from where she held her dress up, forcing her to let him take control. He would have his agency in this at least, a sliver of it, even if his humiliation continued. The fabric pooled around her hips, still bunched, still waiting.
And then—without a word, he set himself to task.
His large, calloused hands traced the outer curve of her thighs, just barely, just enough to make her wonder if she imagined it, before his grip turned firm and strong. The heat of his palms ghosted over her skin, a stark contrast to the slow, searing burn in his gaze as he tilted his head, positioning himself exactly where she wanted him, half his face hidden beneath her mound from the nose down, the other half looking up at her with disdain carrying a hint of lust.
The moment stretched, unbearable. And then—his mouth found her hip, his breath warm against her skin. He did not rush. No, that would be giving her what she wanted too easily. Instead, he let his lips graze the delicate lace at her hipbone, lingering just long enough to make her muscles tighten beneath him. It was as if there were unpressed kisses and bites, dragging across her skin until he found the perfect a little further in along the dip of her hips. Then, ever so slowly, his teeth caught the fabric.
The fragile material resisted for only a second before yielding, slipping between his lips as he began to pull, inch by inch, dragging it downward in a way that forced her to feel everything. The slightest scrape of his stubble against her pubic landing, the press of his chin ever so momentarily against the hidden petals just above, the drag of his lips against her clit in innevitable consequence on his way down, the hotness of his breath against her core—intentional, precise, devastating.
His fingers never assisted. He let gravity and patience do the work, teasing the lace inch by inch down her thighs, past the smooth expanse of her porcelain legs, almost in worship, until it barely clung to her ankles. Only then did he let go, allowing the flimsy scrap of fabric to fall to the floor in complete silence.
For a brief moment, he remained there, knelt before her, his eyes trailing up the length of her bare legs with slow, languid appreciation before finally he saw what he had revealed. A perfectly pink, glistening, tempting slit staring him in the face from beneath her dress. A sight he should never have looked at in the first place, but now, could not look away from until he literally had to force his thoughts quiet and his face to fully look up at her instead. He could not be caught staring at the brat's little cunt. As tempting as it was.
At least, he had done as she asked.
"I suggest you stop now before this gets out of hand." A threat, that carried less weight than usual considering he was speaking it from his knees before her, and the fact that his cock was now firmly erect and tenting his pants. "Surely you have one of the many puppies following you around to do this kind of shit with you. You're on, what, your fourth boyfriend this year? I'll go call one for you." He snarled. "Maybe you can throw your little tantrum at him"
Spite in his words, but it was...unconvincing.
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