“So wet for me,” he would murmur, his voice a low, possessive rumble. “You always were. You just didn’t want to admit it.”
Then he would enter me.
Not like Roman. Not a sudden, shocking invasion. He would press into me slowly, inexorably, stretching me, filling me, his cock a long, thick, unyielding pressure. He would be watching me, I would feel his eyes on my back, on the way my body trembled, the way my fists clenched in the sheets. He would savor my submission, his own personal form of victory over a girl like me.
He would start to move, his hips snapping against my reddened ass, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room. His rhythm would be punishing, an animalistic claiming of my body that would leave no room for thought, for resistance, for anything but sensation. He would be amanin the primitive sense, and he would remind me that I am awoman, his to possess and use and fuck.
“Tell me you want it,” he would command.
And I would. Because in this fantasy, I would be broken. I would be a sobbing punished wreck, and my surrender would no longer be my own to give.
It would be his to take.
“I want it,” I would sob. “I want you to fuck me, Lev.”
The thought, the fantasy, the imagined surrender was too much.
My hand, which had been resting on the edge of the tub, slid down my stomach, my fingers tracing a path through the warm, scented water. I found my clit, already swollen and aching, and I gasped, a quick, ragged breath that was half pain, half desire. I circled the sensitive nub, my movements slow at first, then faster, matching the rhythm of the fantasy Lev had created in my mind.
For a moment, I was entirely distracted.
But then, a sound reached me—an unmistakable thrum that turned the windows to trembling mirrors. I froze. At this height, noise didn’t reach often. When it did, it meant something.
The steady rhythm of rotors rolled closer, deeper, until it drowned out the heartbeat in my ears. For one terrible second, I told myself it was coincidence. Dubai was full of powerful men. Then a sleek shadow cut across the sunlight, settling into place with unnerving precision. I heard the rotors slow, the blades ticking to a stop.
The bathroom filled with silence again—dense, expectant.
Fuck.
The hotel’s helipad.
My stomach turned cold. Without a second thought, I flew out of the bath.Water sloshed onto the marble, my body gleaming under the lights. I grabbed my panties, yanked them up my legs and wrapped the robe around me, the fabric clinging to my damp skin as I moved to the windows. The helicopter, a sleek, black dragon displayed a crest I recognized instantly—threeinterlocking circles, stark and silver against the matte black finish.
The Markov family crest.
I had only seconds. Maybe a minute at most.
I sprinted to the bedroom, my mind a whirlwind of calculation. My go-bag was concealed in the walk-in closet. Two passports, cash, a clean phone, all hidden in the false bottom of a designer suitcase. I was reaching for it when another sound reached me.
By the time I made it to the main room, the door to the balcony had already opened.
Lev Markov stood there, framed by the morning glare like he’d been carved out of the light. The same tailored black suit I’d imagined, the shirt unbuttoned just enough to show a hint of the ink that coiled up his throat. No weapon in sight. He didn’t need one.
He shut the glass door behind him with a soft click. “You really should lock these things,” he intoned, his voice dangerously calm.
“I find locks give people a false sense of safety.”
He smiled faintly. “And yet, here you are, startled from your bath. Your wet skin is making that robe cling to your body in quite a fetching manner.”
I crossed to the bar, poured a mug of coffee I didn’t need. “If you’re here to kill me, you could at least let me finish my morning routine.”
“I’m not here to kill you.” He paused, studying me. “Yet.”
“So dramatic,” I retorted. “Still practicing your intimidation tactics, or is this one personal?”
“It’s business,” he said. Then, after a beat, “Though I’ll admit, the view’s improved since boarding school.”
I hated the way that line made my skin prickle. He’d grown into his cruelty; it fit him just like his immaculate suit.
