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I failed.
I fucking failed.
There is always a first time for everything; failure has never been a part of my life. I have never uttered the words “I have failed” before today. I'm a fucking perfectionist. I like to plan my life, my day, and my future; she was never supposed to be a part of this—a big fucking part.
I was officially fucked.
I promised myself. I fucking promised myself that I won't ever make a woman my weakness. I won't follow in my father's footsteps. I won't let anyone control me with a woman.
I failed myself.
My mind can't form coherent thoughts when she is near me. I think about her first before doing anything. I now have to think long and hard about her before making a decision even if it is about my business. Thousands of thoughts race through my mind—how will this affect her? Will it hurt her? Will I be putting her in danger of any kind?
At this point, she can just cut off my dick and wear it around her neck to symbolize how much power she has over me.
She has me in a fucking chokehold.
Gentle?!
Was I fucking gentle?!
I have never cared much about sex. It was a physical need, a release—two people scratching each other's itch but sex with her fucking blew my mind.
I also never really cared much about the women I did it with—they could be skinny, curvy, tall, short, blonde, brunette, dark, or pale. I never had a preference until her.
Now all I want is dark brown hair, brown eyes, porcelain skin, and swollen, succulent pink lips.
I had my people adorn the entire rooftop of the villa because I wanted this to be perfect for her. It was her first time. I didn't want it to be a fucked up memory for her; it was all about her.
I went slow and gentle so that I won't hurt her. I didn't even think about my pleasure or release. It was the first time I, Nikolai Costello, cared more about the person I was doing it with.
I never really thought I'd care about someone the way I do for her.
I reclined back in my seat; I couldn't focus on work. All I could think about was her writhing with pleasure underneath me, those soft noises she made, the curve of her back, her painted nails scratching on my skin, and those fucking tits. I ran a hand down my face and sighed out loud.
We have been back in New York for a week now. I didn't touch her, although I wanted her so fucking bad. I didn't want to pressure her, but I don't think I could restrain myself any longer now that I had been inside her.
The door flung open, and she smiled at me. She doesn't fucking knock anymore; she roams in and out like a fucking boss.
I raised an eyebrow as she approached me with a wide smile. She made her way in front of me and settled over my lap like she owned me; I looked down at the ring on my finger, well, she technically does.
