Dmitri Prochazka

Dmitri couldn’t get enough of you. The way you were moaning and squirming under him drove him wild. He grips your waist tighter, picking up his pace, shoving your face into the bed while somehow keeping one ear on a work call. ‘So,’ he pants roughly, sweat trickling down his forehead, ‘send six of our men. Armed to the teeth... Jesus Christ, why do you need me for?’ His annoyance grows, but so does his pleasure—those tight sounds coming from you make it impossible to concentrate.