“It’s never going to be enough,” he mumbles before sliding his fingers from me. “I’m always going to want you. Every part of you, wet and aching and trembling for me.”
He presses himself against my entrance as he kisses me deeply.
“This might hurt, printsessa, but hold on and I’ll get you through it.”
I nod, lifting my hands to his shoulders. Then he pushes inside me in one long thrust and I scream. The sharp pain, the stretch, the burn… it’s all too much.
I can hear him telling me to hold on, to breathe through it, but every part of me is clenched tight.
“I won’t move until you’re ready but if you don’t loosen your grip on me this will all be over before it’s even began,” he finally says through gritted teeth.
I take a few deep breaths, force myself to relax, and when he slides from me the sensation feels amazing. He pulls all the way out slowly, then slowly pushes all the way back in, letting me savour the way he fills me so completely.
“Lift your knees higher,” he says and I pull my legs back to where they were before.
He groans long and hard on the next thrust.
“You’re so perfect for me printsessa. Every bit of you fits to me like we were made for each other.”
He nips at my shoulder, my collar bone, then lifts a hand to one breast and squeezes it. “Fuck me, I feel feral when I’m with you.”
His pace is faster now, almost jagged in its rhythm. The pain has subsided fully, and been replaced with a coiling, building sensation that echoes through me in every direction.
He releases my breast and lowers his hand between us, leaning back a little to make space. When presses against my clit a pulse of something hot and electric zaps though me causing me to gasp.
“That’s it printsessa, focus on how good it feels when I fuck you, when I touch you…” he moves his hand in firm circles and my eyes close as the first waves of pleasure roll through me. “Open your eyes,” he demands as a scream tears from my throat.
I manage to do as he asks, barely, as he locks his gaze onto mine and picks up speed. “Yes, printsessa, milk my cock like you own it!”
Then his face softens, his eyes glaze and he follows me over the edge, throbbing and pulsing inside me. Each thrust is punctuated with a long groan as his release spurts, his back arching, his hand stilling and pressing hard against me as my final shivers subside.
He collapses over me, leaning on both forearms as he lays his head on my chest. He stays there for a few minutes, and then gently pulls out, groaning when he notices the small smear of blood.
“Wait here, Victoria,” he says, getting out of bed and disappearing through a door. He returns moments later with a wash cloth, which is beautifully warm when he presses it between my thighs. “I hope that wasn’t too painful for you,” he says, gently cleaning me. “You might be sore for a couple of days, but it won’t hurt next time.”
I lie back and take in the moment. It almost doesn’t feel real.
Once the washcloth has cooled and I’m clean, he climbs beside me and pulls me close.
Leonid
I don’t sleep.
Not because I’m restless, but because something has finally settled.
The house is quiet, insulated from chaos, sealed against intrusion. The security feeds glow softly in the dark, familiar and comforting, but I don’t really see them anymore. My attention keeps drifting back to the woman upstairs, to the way she stood in my office and admitted the truth without flinching. The way she trusted me with her body in a way I hope shows her she can trust me with every part of her.
Having sex with her didn’t create this need in me. It stripped away the excuses I’d been using to pretend it wasn’t already there. I didn’t want her because she challenged me or because she was beautiful or because she stole from the Bratva and lived. I wanted her because the moment I saw her on that screen in New York, moving through her uncle’s vault with calm precision and fire in her eyes, I recognized something rare and uncompromising.
She wasn’t afraid.
Not of the cameras. Not of the consequences. Not even of the man who raised her to be small. She walked into that vault knowing exactly what it would cost her if she was caught andtook the risk anyway. That kind of courage isn’t learned. It’s born.
I watched her escape and felt something dangerous lock into place in my chest.
I didn’t want to punish her for stealing. I wanted to know if the fire I saw was real, or just desperation masquerading as bravery.
It was real.
