“That’s it,kotenok,” he says, voice husky. “Just like that. God, you’re so good.” I push him to the edge, feeling him throbbing against my tongue, but he pulls me off, panting, eyes wild. “Not yet. I want to feel you first.”
He yanks me up, then lowers me gently on the rug before the fire, the heat licking my skin as he strips my dress off, leaving me in nothing but lace panties. His fingers hook the fabric, tearing it away. He spreads my thighs, diving in. His tongue laps my pussy, slow and deliberate, circling my clit until I’m writhing and moaning his name.
“You taste so sweet,” he murmurs, sucking hard, fingers sliding inside. “Come for me, Teresa. Let me hear you.”
My first orgasm hits fast, my pussy clenching around his fingers as I cry out, firelight dancing on his focused face.
He doesn’t stop. “Again,” he murmurs, flipping me onto my stomach and pulling my hips up. His cock teases my entrance, slick with my arousal. “You want this, don’t you?” he growls, voice thick with need. “Tell me,kotenok.”
“Yes, god yes,” I gasp, pushing back, desperate to feel him inside me. He thrusts in, moving slowly, deeply, each stroke landing perfectly, his hands gripping my hips.
“Fuck, you’re so tight,” he groans. “You feel that? How well we fit together?”
I moan, nodding, lost in him. The words push me over the edge and I come again, trembling, his name a sob on my lips.
“God, Vlad, don’t stop. I’m yours,” I whimper, voice breaking. “I’m so yours.”
“I’ll never stop,” he promises. He pulls out and rolls me onto my back, eyes locked on mine, soft, almost reverent. “I need to see you,” he says, sliding back inside, slow and deep, filling me completely. My legs wrap around him, pulling him closer. He kisses me, tongue stroking mine, hands cupping my face like I’m precious.
“Feel me, Teresa,” he whispers, thrusting steadily. “You’re my fucking world.” His thumb circles my clit, gentle but relentless. “Come for me one more time,kotenok.”
I shatter a third time, my orgasm crashing through me, tears pricking my eyes from the intensity.He groans, thrusting deep as he comes with me, his body shuddering as he buries his face in my neck, his warmth draining into me.
We collapse, tangled on the rug, the fire’s warmth wrapping around us. His arms encircle me, pulling me against his chest, lips brushing my temple.
“You’re my everything,” he murmurs, voice raw, and my heart clenches, the wordsI love youburning in my throat.
I swallow them, terrified by their weight, by how much I feel for this man, this killer who holds me like I’m his salvation. I burrow into his warmth, his heartbeat steady under my cheek, my mind racing.
This love, this need, it’s too much, too real, and I’m scared it’ll consume me before I can make sense of it.
CHAPTER 22
TERESA
Iwake to the unmistakable smell of cinnamon and bacon, straight from whatever kitchen heaven smells like.
Vlad’s bed is absurdly huge, a down-filled cloud with no edge in sight, but the scent drags me up and out, bare feet hitting warm hardwood. Somewhere down the hall a sultry rendition ofSanta Babyplays. I swipe one of Vlad’s shirts from the chaise and follow the music. In the kitchen, I nearly drop from laughter. Standing near the island is a six-foot-four-inch mob boss, Santa hat so floppy it keeps sliding over one eye, whisk twirling in his tattooed hand while the other scrolls an iPad recipe.
“I had no idea you cook too,” I say, leaning on the doorframe.
Vlad doesn’t miss a beat. “Google does. I supervise.”
The marble island has been turned into a Christmas buffet—berry-stuffed pancakes stacked like floppy ornaments, hash browns cut into star shapes, a pitcher of creamy eggnog.
“Color balance is good,” I tease, hopping onto a stool. “Presentation, ten out of ten.”
He arches a brow, but a smile tugs at his lips beneath the beard. “Taste will score eleven.”
We load plates and migrate to the study, where the Christmas tree glows in fresh sunlight. The fire’s already going, flames crackling. He hands me a mug, its contents creamy and non-threatening while his smells distinctly boozy.
“Un-spiked?” I check.
He nods. “Yes.”
We clink. The first sip tastes like pure Christmas.
We settle on the rug, plates between us, the hearth warm against my skin. His pancakes are pillowy, his bacon crisp. I don’t even pretend to pace myself. Somewhere between my third bite and second strip of bacon, I realize just how much I’ve piled onto my plate. Old instincts whisper that maybe I should’ve held back, taken a daintier portion.
