I DON’T RECOGNIZE THE MAN HOVERING ABOVE ME.
It’s not like I’ve ever known Dmitry Orlov enough to think he isn’t what I’ve always known. It’s just that right now, he doesn’t look like the man who always had a calm, composed expression. The other night at the club, I hadn’t been able to make out his complete facial expression, so I didn’t know how exactly he looked when aroused. After our engagement lunch at home when he’d finger-f****d me, I’d been too aroused to make out what he looked like then too. Besides, it was about me that day — about supposedly helping me remember who he was.
But now, it’s all about him and his pleasure. His desire.
Dmitry’s eyes are hooded, filled with lust, his pupils dilated. His jaw is clenched tightly, as if trying to restrain himself, lips pressed firmly,
