When we arrive at the mansion, Clara slips from the car before the driver can even open the door. She walks quickly, her steps unsteady, her composure cracking at the seams. She doesn’t look back as she heads for the stairs, but I follow, my gaze fixed on the sway of her hips, the soft fall of her hair downher back. The house is quiet, empty except for the two of us, the silence heavy with everything we haven’t said.
She turns the corner, but before she can vanish down the hall, I catch her wrist—firm but gentle, anchoring her in place. She stops, tension coiling through her body, but she doesn’t pull away.
“Clara,” I murmur, voice thick with everything I’ve been holding back.
She turns, eyes wide, lips trembling. “Lukyan—”
The kiss breaks everything open. I draw her into me, pressing her back against the cool wall, my mouth finding hers in a slow, desperate collision. It isn’t rough. It isn’t about punishment or power. It’s about need, longing, reverence.
My hands frame her face, thumbs brushing her cheeks, as I kiss her like I’ve never kissed anyone—slow, deep, savoring the taste of her, the way she opens for me, the small, helpless noises that slip from her throat.
She melts against me, fingers twining in my jacket, nails scraping my chest. I let my hands roam, down her neck, her sides, gripping her hips, pulling her closer until there’s no space left between us. Her body arches into mine, soft and urgent, and I feel her shiver as my mouth trails down her jaw, her throat, the line of her collarbone.
“Lukyan,” she breathes, the word half a gasp, half a prayer.
I find the zipper at the back of her dress and ease it down, my mouth worshipping every inch of skin I reveal. The silk slips from her shoulders, pooling at her feet, leaving her in nothing but lace and heat and the wild thrum of her pulse.
I sink to my knees, hands gripping her thighs as I press my mouth to her stomach, her hip, the soft curve where her legmeets her core. She tangles her hands in my hair, urging me higher, needing more.
I hook my fingers in her panties, sliding them down her legs. She steps out of them, trembling, baring herself to me without shame. I press a kiss to the inside of her thigh, savoring the way she shudders, then part her legs and find her with my mouth—slow, deliberate, drawing circles around her clit, tasting her, making her writhe against the wall.
She moans my name, hips rolling, one hand fisted in my hair, the other clutching my shoulder.
I take my time, teasing her to the edge, then back again, until she’s begging, breathless and wild. When she’s trembling, gasping, so close she’s almost sobbing, I rise and lift her into my arms, carrying her to the nearest bedroom.
I lay her on the bed and strip off my jacket, shirt, trousers—every layer until I’m bare for her, cock hard and aching, desperate to be inside her. I climb over her, mouth capturing hers again, hands roaming everywhere, as if I could memorize her with touch alone.
I settle between her thighs, the tip of my cock brushing her entrance, slick and hot. I pause, searching her face, giving her every chance to stop me.
“Tell me what you want,” I whisper.
She looks up at me, eyes shining, and nods. “I don’t care, just fuck me.”
I push inside, slow and deep, her body stretching to take me, hot and tight and perfect. She cries out, nails digging into my back, legs wrapping around my hips.
I set a rhythm, slow at first, savoring the way she gasps, the way her breath hitches every time I thrust deeper.
I fuck her with a hunger that’s been building for weeks—months, maybe years—a need so sharp it borders on pain. Our bodies move together, finding a rhythm that’s equal parts urgency and relief. Every time she arches, I meet her, driving in harder, deeper, until she’s moaning, pleading, her body slick with sweat and need.
I kiss her everywhere; her mouth, her throat, her breasts, the hollow between her hips. She wraps her arms around me, pulling me closer, begging for more. I give it to her, over and over, until she breaks beneath me, coming hard, her body clenching around my cock, her cries muffled against my shoulder.
I follow, thrusting deep, spilling inside her with a groan, the world narrowing to the heat and grip of her, the way her body claims me as surely as I claim her.
We lie tangled together in the aftermath, breathless and spent, the room soft and quiet around us. She rests her head against my chest, her hair falling over my skin, her body warm and pliant in my arms.
I let myself simply hold her, no fear, no restraint, just the quiet certainty that she is mine, and I am hers. I press a kiss to her hair, breathing her in, and know that nothing outside this room matters.
Not tonight. Not with her in my arms.
The afterglow is soft and tangled, the room heavy with the scent of sweat and sex and the faintest drift of Clara’s perfume. The sheets are twisted, cooling against my skin, her body warm and loose against my chest.
I could lose myself in the rhythm of her breathing, the rise and fall of her shoulder beneath my hand, but some old woundinside me aches with the need to confess—just this once, just to her.
She lifts her head, propping herself on her elbow, her hair a wild halo around her face. In the low lamplight, her eyes are unguarded, waiting, wanting more than just touch.
“What is it?” she asks, her voice hushed, as if she’s afraid of breaking the fragile spell between us.
I hesitate. There are things I have never spoken aloud, not to my men, not to Nikolai, not even in the silence of my own thoughts.
