He’s still hard. His hands grip my wrists, lifting them above my head as he pins them there with one hand, the other coming down to encircle my throat over the collar. “Now you come whenIsay so,devochka,” he purrs, his eyes alight with wicked intent as he starts to thrust, long and slow, never giving me the slightest bit of friction on my clit.
It’s the most exquisite torture. He fucks me more slowly than he ever has, his gaze locked on mine the entire time, his patience infinite as he draws out to the tip, fucking me with only that as he looks down at me smirking. He sinks in slowly, draws out again, torturing me as I mewl and writhe, until finally I glare up at him, panting and breathless, both of us glazed in a fine sheen of sweat.
“Please,” I whisper. “Make me come, Ilya. Please make me come.”
He grins, a feral expression on his face as he tilts his hips forward, still pinning me with his hands on my wrists and throat as he angles himself so that he grinds against my clit with every thrust. He moves faster, harder, stimulating me as he pushes us both toward the edge, and when I’m gasping his name, he hooks one finger under the collar, tugging me up so that my lips are an inch from his.
“Come for me, Mara.”
The orgasm explodes through me, pleasure tightening every muscle and burning through my veins as I clench around him, sobbing out my third climax of the night. I moan helplessly as spasm after spasm grips me, and Ilya drops me back to the bed, his mouth sealing over mine as he thrusts once more, hard, and throbs inside of me again.
When he finally slides out of me, I can feel the rush of cum that follows, soaking my thighs and the bed. His arm goes around my waist, and he tugs me up next to him as he lies back down, against the length of his body.
“You sleep here now,” he says, his voice even and firm. “You’re mine, Mara, and I’m yours. There’s nowhere you should be at night but in my bed. Inourbed.”
I might have argued, until he said that last. A part of me still wants to argue that he should ask, but I’m too exhausted. I know we’re not finished, that he still needs to open up to me, to tell me more about himself, to be honest with me in a way I’d guess he never has been with anyone else.
But for now, I can give in to this, at least.
I close my eyes, and for the first time, I fall asleep in Ilya Sokolov’s arms.
—
I waketo sunlight streaming through unfamiliar windows and the weight of Ilya's arm across my waist. I feel the weight of the collar around my neck, the light pressure of it there, and everything that happened last night comes rushing back.
He chose to surrender to me.
And I chose to give myself to him.
Ilya is still asleep beside me, his face relaxed in a way I've never seen before. In sleep, he looks younger, less dangerous. Almost vulnerable. I study him in the morning light—the sharp line of his jaw, the light blond lashes against his cheeks, the way his hair falls across his forehead.
He's beautiful. And he's a monster. And he's mine.
The thought should terrify me. Instead, it fills me with a strange sense of calm. Like I've finally stopped fighting against a current that was always going to carry me here anyway.
His eyes open, and I push myself up onto my elbow, looking down at him tangled in the white sheets with me. "Tell me the truth," I say quietly.
His gaze fixes on mine, sharp and aware now. I wonder if he ever truly relaxes, or if the vigilance is so ingrained it's become part of who he is.
"About what?" His voice is rough with sleep.
"All of it." I shift to face him more fully. "You told me about the Bratva, about Sergei, about the danger. But you didn't tell me why. Why you are the way you are. Why you need control so desperately. Why the thought of losing me makes you—" I pause, "—feel insane."
He's quiet for a long moment, and I can see the struggle happening behind his eyes. The instinct to deflect, to keep his vulnerabilities hidden warring with something else. The need to be known, truly known, by someone, maybe.
I can understand that. But I need to understandhim, too.
"I've never told anyone," he says finally. “I’ve never wanted to.”
“But you’ll tell me?” I ask softly, and after a long moment, he nods.
"Yes." His jaw tightens. "I don't know why, but yes. I want you to understand."
He sits up, and I do the same, pulling the sheet around myself. The choker catches the morning light, throwing tiny rainbows across the white fabric, and I see his eyes track the movement before returning to my face.
"I grew up in Moscow," he begins, his voice carefully controlled. "My father was apakhan. Brutal, powerful, feared by everyone who knew him. He ruled through violence and intimidation, and he raised me to do the same."
I stay quiet, letting him find his words. I have a feeling that interrupting him would break whatever fragile willingness to share he's found.
