Ivan explodes into my mouth.
His whole body goes rigid, hand fisting in my hair so tight it hurts in the best way. His heartbeat thrums through him—racing, pounding, alive. Proof that I did this. That I, Lila the waitress who can barely serve coffee without spilling it, made Ivan Petrov, the lethal Pakhan who broke a man's fingers like breadsticks, completely lose control.
The rush of power makes my head spin.
Or that could be the lack of oxygen. Hard to tell.
I swallow. The action is intimate in a way that goes beyond the obvious. Like I'm accepting all of him, not just this.
God, when did I become the kind of person who has profound thoughts while giving head?Focus, Lila.
I look up at him slowly, still on my knees, and?—
Fuck.
He’s so devastatingly hot it's almost unfair. Hair messed up from my hands running through it. Jaw clenched. Dark eyes locked on me like I'm the only thing that exists in his world. Not the blood drying on the floor. Not the aftermath of violence hanging in the air. Not the Bratva politics or the men who fled.
Just me.
The intensity of his gaze makes my chest flutter—dangerous and warm and terrifying.
I stand slowly, legs slightly shaky, and meet his eyes before I kiss him. I let him taste himself on my tongue, and the way he groans into my mouth makes everything inside me clench with want.
Wasn't I just satisfied two seconds ago?
My hands move to his tie. The silk is smooth under my fingers. I loosen it slowly, savoring the act of undressing him. It’s like unwrapping a present. A very hot, very dangerous, very illegal present that might get me killed, but God, what a way to go.
The tie slides free, and I drop it to the blood of a ruined meeting.
His suit jacket is next. The fabric is heavy and well-tailored.
Then his shirt. Each button I undo is monumental. Important. Like I'm revealing a sacred truth underneath—smooth skin, hard muscle, evidence that he's human.
"Let me show you how much I don't regret this," I whisper against his mouth.
I'm working on his pants, fingers fumbling with his belt, when he lifts me without warning.
He picks me up like I weigh nothing, like I'm not a fully grown woman and my stomach does that roller coaster drop drop. Just as suddenly, I'm on the table.
Before I can process what's happening, my shorts are gone. My panties follow the same path, disappearing, and his hands are on my thighs, spreading my legs wide. Wider than I knew they could go.
Here, I'm completely exposed. On his meeting table. Where he conducts business. Where important decisions get made about territory and shipments and who lives and who dies.
"They all want me to choose their daughters?" His accent isthicker than usual. He looks at me spread out, and a predatory glint crosses his face. "Let them smell you on this table next time."
Oh fuck.
That shouldn't be hot. That should be crude and possessive and too much. But it is hot. It's so hot I can barely breathe.
He's hard again. How is that even possible? Don't men need recovery time? I thought there were rules about this. Biological limitations.
Apparently, Ivan doesn't follow those rules any more than he follows other rules.
His fingers come first. Two of them, sliding into me without warning, without preparation, pushing in and twisting in ways that make my back arch off the cold wood. Cold table, hot body, and his fingers curling inside me, finding spots that make my vision blur.
"Ivan—"
He replaces his fingers with himself, and I lose the ability to form words.
