He rises slowly, pulling me up with him, his hands firm on my arms. I’m small against him, my head fitting just under his chin. The scent of him—clean, male, uniquely Igor—surrounds me. A mark he didn’t plan, but one I don’t regret. “Come,” he murmurs, guiding me toward the bed.
He eases me down onto the edge of the mattress. The sheets are still rumpled from our night. He sits beside me, our thighs touching, the heat of him seeping through the fabric of our jeans. The silence stretches, charged, but it’s not uncomfortable. It feels… shared.
He says something about Ivan, but the words blur. The aftershocks of the prank are still rattling through me, kicking up dust from places I keep locked down tight.
“It wasn’t him,” I manage, my throat tight. “It just… reminded me.”
He doesn’t press. Instead, he reaches for my hand, uncurling my fingers one by one until my palm rests open in his. His thumb strokes the inside of my wrist, over the frantic beat of my pulse. “You don’t have to face it alone.”
“Why?” I ask, the word a ghost of a sound. “Why do you care? This was supposed to be convenient.”
“Because you’re my wife,” he says, the truth rough and absolute. “And because I see you, Aria. You.”
My breath hitches. The air leaves my lungs in a rush, and I lean in, my free hand coming up to rest on his chest. The solid, steady thump of his heart beats beneath my palm. A low, coiling heat that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with want. I need to feel that strength, that certainty, all around me. Inside me.
I tilt my face up, my lips parting. He takes the invitation, his mouth brushing mine in a tease that tests us both. It’s gentle. Careful.
And it’s not enough.
The memories Ivan’s stunt unearthed are sharp and jagged. Gentle won’t erase them. Gentle won’t make me forget. I need the force of him, the raw power I felt last night, to blot out everything else.
I curl my fingers into his shirt, tugging him closer, and break the kiss. His eyes are dark, questioning.
“Don’t be gentle,” I whisper, the plea raw. “Not now. I need… more.” My voice breaks on the last word. “Make me forget.”
Understanding dawns in his expression, stark and immediate, but it’s followed by a flash of something else. A possessive rage.A low growl rumbles from his chest as he angles my head back, claiming my mouth with the force I craved. There is no more testing. This is a storm, and I throw myself into the heart of it.
He shifts, lifting me onto his lap so I straddle him. His hands are frantic, tearing at the hem of my sweater, yanking it over my head. My bra follows, the clasp giving way under the brute force of his fingers. He shoves my jeans and panties down my legs in one rough motion, leaving me bare for him. His palms are hot and hard on my hips, holding me in place as his mouth finds my neck, sucking a mark into the sensitive skin below my ear.
I’m already wet, slick for him, and when his fingers dip into my heat, a moan tears from my throat. He circles my clit with a merciless pressure, his thumb grinding down as two fingers slide deep inside my slick channel. I bury my face in his neck, undone.
“Tell me you want this,” he rasps, his voice gravel-rough, his cock straining, thick and hard, against my center through his jeans.
“Yes,” I breathe, grinding down against his hand, my nails digging into his shoulders. “Igor… please. Fuck me. Please.”
My name on his lips, the desperation in my voice, snaps the last thread of his control. He flips us, laying me back on the bed. He doesn’t bother with his shirt, just unzips his jeans, his cock springing free, heavy and dark and throbbing for me. “Look at me,” he commands, and my eyes obey. He positions himself between my legs, rubbing his thick tip against my drenched folds, smearing my wetness over himself. “This is us. No games. No deals. Just you and me.”
I nod, biting my lip as he thrusts in. He fills me, a brutal, perfect invasion that stretches me until I feel branded by him. He pauses, forehead pressed to mine, our breaths mingling in harsh pants. Then he moves. It’s a deep, punishing rhythm that is exactly the healing I need. Each thrust is a claim, a drivingforce that pounds the fear into dust. He grips my hips, his fingers digging in, lifting me to meet each savage lunge.
*Mine, mine, mine,* the motion grinds into me, and my soul screams back, *yours*. I wrap my legs around his waist, my heels digging into his back, urging him faster, deeper. The world narrows to the wet slap of our skin, my ragged cries, and the feeling of him buried to the hilt inside my cunt. He hooks a leg over his shoulder, the change in angle tearing a keen from my throat as my walls flutter around him.
“Come for me again,” he growls against my ear, his thumb finding my clit and rubbing with a bruising force.
I do, shattering with a cry that’s half sob, half ecstasy. The sensation tips him over the edge. His control shatters. With a guttural roar that’s pure animal, he empties himself deep inside me, his powerful body convulsing as he spills his heat.
We collapse, tangled and slick with sweat. He pulls out slowly, leaving me feeling hollowed out and empty. He rolls to my side, his chest heaving. The storm has passed. I feel scoured clean, my limbs trembling with the aftershocks.
In the dim light, his gaze traces the faint red marks his fingers left on my hips, then travels to the angry scratches my nails left on his shoulders. His jaw tightens. The feral rage in his eyes softens, replaced by a deep, aching tenderness that makes my breath catch.
Without a word, he slides one arm under my knees and the other behind my back, lifting me from the bed as if I weigh nothing. He carries me from the bedroom and into the master bathroom, a space so large and decadent it looks like it belongs in a magazine. Steam already clouds the air. He’d turned the water on before we…
He sets me down gently on a thick, plush rug beside a tub the size of a small boat. The scent of lavender and chamomile rises with the steam from the bubbling water. He turns to me,his expression raw. “Let me take care of you,” he says, his voice thick.
I walk toward the steam, wrapping my arms around myself. “I’ve never lived in a home with a bathtub,” I confess, the words quiet. He stills, watching me. “Growing up, the most romantic thing I could imagine was that scene inPretty Woman. With the bubbles and the huge tub.”
A glint appears in his eyes, a flicker of challenge and something softer. He steps toward me, his hand coming up to cup my cheek.
“Challenge accepted,” he murmurs, his thumb stroking my skin.
