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9: In Which She Might Have Nikolai in Her Browser History

9: In Which She Miscalculates Her Feelings

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“What the hell?” was the first thing Nikolai groggily murmured when he woke up at the crack of dawn and began to realise that his wrists were cuffed to the wooden headboard of his ridiculously large bed.

His blue eyes focused on me as he made a futile attempt at freeing himself. Since his arms were raised up on either side of his head, I wasn’t too worried about him dislocating something. I was, however, worried that Nikolai was a possible kinky fucker because he had one drawer dedicated to handcuffs of various designs and sizes in his bedroom.

But that was neither here nor there.

“Has anyone mentioned that you sleep like a corpse?” I remarked, cross-legged and appraising him from the foot of the bed.

“I can’t say it’s ever come up in conversation,” he countered, his voice heavy with sarcasm. He jerked his wrists again, shooting me a dark look. “You're going to release me now, Ophelia.”

God, the way he said my name… Like it was something mysterious and exotic, and not something out of the only play my mother ever read and finished in high school.

“I don’t think so,” I told him, grimacing when he began to pull at his restraints once more. He was going to bruise himself if he wasn’t careful. His skin was no match against the cold, hard metal.

He stopped fighting, watching me warily. “Is this a game?” He ran his tongue along his pouty lower lip. I stifled a moan at how hot that was. “You like cuffing me? Well, pussycat, let me go and I’ll cuff you. Think about how much you’d like that…”

I did. Briefly. It was tempting to allow him to confine me to his bed, to have his wicked way with me. I had no doubt it would be wicked… But there were some things I needed to get straight; things he probably would never tell me under normal circumstances. Things I needed to know before I went back home.

“I guess you could call this a game,” I said slowly, running a hand up one of his long, exposed legs and pausing at his knee. I traced his kneecap in small circles, no doubt tickling him. He tried to get his leg away from me, groaning when he realised how impossible that was. “It’s called Truth and Reward.”

“Truth and Reward,” he echoed, and we both stared at the erection straining at the crotch of his silk boxers shorts.

“Yeah.” I licked my lips, moving to straddle him. He automatically jerked, his cock unerringly hitting my exposed clit through the thin silk of his boxers. I gasped. “We’ll start easy,” I breathed, ignoring the sweet sensation. “Favourite food?”

His blue eyes were fixed on me, registering disbelief. “My favourite food?”

“Like I said – easy.”

“But I could lie to you. How would you know that it was the truth?”

“Why would you lie about something like that?”

“Fair enough,” he slowly conceded. He tilted his head to one side. “Pelmeni.” At my blank look, he elaborated: “They’re dumplings. Pastry dumplings stuffed with meatballs. My mother would make them all the time. For a time, that’s all I ate.” His eyes danced with fond memories and I knew that he was telling the truth. No guy could make up a story like that.

“Reward,” I murmured, lowering my mouth to his heavy chest and closing it over one of his dusky nipples. I nibbled at the pebbled nub gently with my teeth and he arched his back, groaning as if in pain.