When I position myself at her entrance, I pause. “Tell me if it’s too much.”
She nods, pulling me down for a kiss.
I press forward slowly, feeling her stretch around me. She winces slightly, and I still.
“Okay?”
“Yeah,” she breathes. “Keep going.”
So tight. So perfect. So mine.
I sink in deeper, inch by inch, until I’m fully seated inside her. We both exhale shakily.
Then I start to move—slow, careful thrusts that gradually build in intensity as her body adjusts. Her legs wrap around my waist, pulling me deeper, and I’m lost.
This is everything. She’s everything.
“I love you,” I breathe against her mouth as the pressure builds. “God, Katerina, I love you—”
She tightens around me, gasping my name, and that’s all it takes. We both come together, my orgasm crashes through me, and I bury my face in her neck, groaning her name as I shudder through it. Her body pulsates over me with her release, milking every drop.
For a long moment, we just breathe together, hearts racing in sync.
Whatever happens tomorrow, we have this. We have each other.
Chapter Twenty-Four
KATERINA
I don’t sleep much, even in Scottie’s arms.
Every time I close my eyes, I see my grandmother’s face across that immaculate tea table, hear her sayingI will let you know my decision tomorrowin that calm, terrifying way of hers.
Tomorrow is now.
Scottie left early this morning. It’s game day, and he needs to be at the stadium. I’ll see him later tonight, and I hope that we’ll be celebrating at Oakley's with my grandmother’s blessing but I have no idea what today will bring.
My stomach is in knots even before the knock sounds on the penthouse door.
Not just a knock.
It’s a pattern. Two firm taps, a pause, then one more.
The way Popovich security always introduced themselves.
My blood runs cold.
I open the door to find a large man in a black suit and winter coat standing in the hallway. His expression is blank and typical.
“Miss Popovich,” he says in Russian. “Your grandmother requests your presence.”
A lifetime ago, I would have been flanked out of apartments, studios, restaurants by men just like him. I found comfort in the routine back then. Now, it feels like a collar tightening around my neck.
“Of course,” I say, switching back to English as I grab my coat. “Let me get my things.”
He steps aside.
I glance toward the interior of the penthouse, the couch where Scottie and I fall asleep more nights than not, the kitchen island where he lifted me last night, the bedroom door half-open and still messy from the way we tumbled into his sheets.
