He sets me down on my feet, still holding me close enough to feel his heat. I glare up at him. “I’m not staying in your suite,” I say, trying to sound firmer than I feel. “I want a separate bedroom.”
Lev doesn’t move. His eyes are dark, unreadable, but I can see the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth—the hint of amusement, or maybe challenge. “Separate bedroom?” he murmurs, his voice low. “This is your home now. You’ll sleep where I do.”
His fingers tighten around mine, and before I can jerk away, he’s guiding me across the suite. “Come,” he says quietly, like it’s a command, not a request.
I stumble after him until we stop in front of a door. He pushes it open, and I freeze. It’s a massive walk-in closet, bigger than my entire apartment. Every shelf, every hanger is filled with new clothes, shoes, bags. Even jewelry. I spot some of my personal items that I’d left in my apartment. When did he get them?
My stomach drops. “What…what is this?”
“All of your things are here. Plus new ones,” he says, his voice low but firm. “This is where you live now. This is your home. You’re my wife, Sasha. You don’t really have another choice.”
I take a shaky step back, hugging my arms to my chest. “All of these things can be moved again,” I whisper. “You can send them back. I can pack them myself.”
He shakes his head slowly, eyes narrowing like he’s looking straight through me. “You need to stop fighting it.” His voice deepens, a warning and a plea all at once. “This isn’t Milan, or one night in New York, where we knew it would end. This isn’t a fantasy, Sasha. This is our life now. Our entire life.”
The words slam into me harder than the walls of this closet. My throat burns; my pulse skips.
“I can’t do this,” I whisper, shaking my head. The air in the room feels too thick, like it’s pressing down on my chest. “I can’t trust you. Not after the way you’ve treated me before. Not after everything you’ve done.”
Lev moves closer, closing the space between us. His hands slide around my waist, slow but sure, until my back hits his chest. I stiffen, but his hold is firm—unyielding without being rough.
“I’m not asking you to trust me right away,” he murmurs against my temple. His voice is softer now, almost tender, the kind of softness that’s dangerous because it makes me want to lean in. “I know I’ve earned your doubts. I know I’ve hurt you. But not tonight.”
His fingers trace small circles against my ribs, steady, grounding. “All I’m asking is this—surrender to me one day at a time. Just one. Today. Especially today. Let me be your husband now.”
His breath brushes my ear, warm and intimate. My heart pounds so hard it feels like it might break through my ribs.
“Please.”
His hands on my waist are gentle at first, almost tentative, giving me space to step back if I want. But I don’t.I can’t. My body betrays me, leaning into him, wanting what I shouldn’t.
He presses a hand to my cheek, tilting my face up, and his lips meet mine in a slow, careful kiss. It’s almost tender, like he’s asking for permission. But I don’t pull away. I want it—I want him.
The kiss deepens, becoming more insistent, more demanding. His hands slide from my waist to my back, drawing me flush against him. I can feel the heat in his chest, the tension in his arms. Every brush of his lips is claiming, staking a right he’s never asked for before—because now, there’s no leaving in the morning.
He lifts me slightly as the kiss grows fiercer, and my fingers dig into his shoulders, needing the contact, needing him. The world shrinks to the press of our bodies, the rhythm of our breaths. It’s intense. Possessive. Like he’s marking me, letting me know I’m his, fully, finally.
And I let him. Because a part of me has been wanting this—the certainty, the claim, the fire in his touch that says he won’t let me go. Not tonight. Not ever.
He carries me to the bed like I weigh nothing, setting me down as though I’m made of glass. For a moment, neither of us moves. The only sound in the room is our breathing, heavy and uneven, echoing off the walls of the suite.
He leans down, his forehead resting against mine. “If you want me to stop…” his voice is low, rough, almost broken, “…tell me now.”
I swallow hard. My pulse is everywhere—my throat, my wrists, between my thighs. “No,” I whisper, surprising myself with how steady I sound. “Don’t stop.”
His eyes darken, relief and hunger flickering across his face. “Good,” he breathes, brushing his thumb along my jaw. “Because if I stop now, it’ll kill me.”
Then his mouth is on mine again, slow at first, like he’s memorizing me all over again. His hands map the shape of my waist, my hips, sliding up my back, not just touching but claiming. He moves like he has all the time in the world, but there’s an edge underneath—a quiet desperation, a need he can’t disguise.
I arch into him, my fingers tangling in his hair, and he groans softly against my lips. Every kiss, every touch feels like a question and an answer at once. Like he’s saying mine with his hands, but also asking me to let him in.
He trails his lips down my throat, slow and reverent, then back up to my mouth, kissing me again, deeper this time. The heat builds gradually, a steady burn rather than a rush. He’s careful, but it’s still intense, a reclaiming—not of my body, but of the connection he walked away from before.
“Look at me,” he murmurs, lifting his head just enough to meet my eyes. His hands cradle my face like I’m something precious. “This isn’t like before. I’m not leaving.”
Before I can respond, he kisses all over my face, while his hands work to remove my clothes. As soon as my clothes come off, his mouth captures a nipple, sucking and nipping with a hunger that makes me gasp. Heat pools low in my belly, spreading fast, making my chest press into him. His other hand moves over my breast, firm and deliberate, tracing the curves as though memorizing them, claiming them.
I arch into him, body taut and trembling, and he groans low against my skin. He doesn’t just want me; he needs me, and I can feel it in the way he buries himself into me, in the intensity of his gaze when our eyes meet, in the way his hand molds my body to his. I can’t think. I can’t speak. All I can do is give in, letting him take what he wants, knowing that this—this dark, hungry devotion—is his way of saying he’s mine. Completely.
