“Tell me if it’s too much,” he growled as he pressed his forehead to mine. “I’ll stop. I’ll wait a fucking lifetime if I have to.”
“No,” I choked out, nails digging into the hard muscle of his shoulders. “Don’t you dare stop. Don’t you dare leave me cold again.”
The last shard of my armor shattered. I was done pretending I didn’t need this, didn’t need him. My hands clawed at his shirt, yanking the silk free from his waistband, desperate to feel skin on skin. Buttons scattered. I dragged the fabric open, palms sliding over the scarred, inked heat of his chest, the brutal beauty of a body forged in violence now trembling for me.
His scent flooded me. I wanted to draw in it. I wanted to forget my father’s betrayal, the blood, the fear, everything but the weight of Roman’s body and the thick cock straining against my thigh.
I arched up, thighs failing wider, slick pussy grinding shamelessly against the ridge of the erection still trapped in his trousers.
I moved against him, slow and deliberate, dragging my wet heat along his length, letting him feel exactly how ready I was. My hands fisted in his hair, pulling his mouth back to mine in a messy, desperate kiss as I rolled my hips again, harder, urging him past the slow, frustrating restraint. I was ready. I was willing. I was his.
I rolled my hips against him, a slow, shameless grind that dragged the slick heat of my pussy along the rigid length still trapped in his trousers. Enough. I was done with restraint. My nails raked down his back, hard enough to score skin through cotton, and I bit his lower lip in raw demand.
Roman’s control snapped like a wire pulled too tight. A guttural Russian curse tore from his throat as he reared up, ripping his shirt open. Buttons pinged across the room, and the sight of his chest (inked, scarred, heavy) stole the last of my breath. He shoved his pants down just far enough to free his cock, thick, flushed, already leaking at the tip. One brutal yank and my thighs were spread wide, knees hooked over his forearms, opening me completely.
“Look at you,” he snarled, dragging himself through my soaked folds, coating himself in me. “Dripping for the devil’s cock.”
I couldn’t even form words, but only a broken moan as he thrust into me in one merciless stroke. The stretch burned, perfect and punishing, and I arched off the bed with a cry that was half sob, half prayer. He didn’t pause, didn’t give me time to adjust. He fucked me like a man possessed, deep grinding strokes that slammed against my cervix and dragged over every sensitive spot inside me until my vision blurred.
“Yes, fuck, Roman–“
His hand clamped over my throat, not squeezing, just holding me pinned, owning me, while the other slid between us to circle my clit with ruthless precision. Every thrust rocked the bed, frame groaning in protest. The monitors beeped faster, matching the frantic hammer of my pulse.
I clawed at his shoulders, his back, anywhere I could reach, marking the way he was marking me. My legs locked around his waist, heels digging into the flexing muscle of his ass, urging him deeper, harder, until the pleasure coiled so tight I thought I’d shatter.
“Come,” he growled against my ear, teeth scraping the lobe. “Come on my cock while I fill you up, while I take what’s already mine.”
The words detonated inside me. My orgasm ripped through me like a blade, white hot, violent, my pussy clamping down on him in pulsing waves. I screamed his name, back bowing, tears streaking into my hair as the terror and adrenaline of the day poured out of me in a single, devastating release.
Roman followed with a savage roar, hips slamming deep on last time. I felt every pulse as he spilled inside me, thick and endless, branding me from the inside out. His body shuddered over mine, sweat-slick skin sliding against mine, breath ragged against my neck.
Only when the last tremor left us did he ease his weight, careful even now of the life between us. He didn’t pull out. Instead, he rolled us gently, still buried deep, until I was draped over his chest, his cock softening inside me but never leaving. One heavy arm locked around my waist, the other tangling in my hair, anchoring me to him.
“Safe,” he rasped, the single word rough with possession and something dangerously close to reverence.
I burrowed into the furnace of his body, cheek pressed to the thunder of his heart, legs tangled with his. The room spun down to nothing but the slowing rhythm of our breathing and the warm, wet place where we were still joined.
Exhaustion crashed over me like a tide, dragging me under. For the first time since St. Petersburg, the noise in my head went quiet. We slept in each other’s arms.
Chapter Seventeen
Roman’s POV
“Konstantin is here to see you.”
At the mention of the name, I understood the urgency. This meant business, and I needed to treat it with every priority.
“Take him to my study. I’ll be with him shortly.”
Stepan walked out, and I shifted my gaze back to Liza. I didn’t want to leave her alone.
Nonetheless, I kissed her head gently and gave her hand a light squeeze.
The room had a strong smell of old books with a blend of gunpowder. Konstantin was already seated. His silence didn’t strike me at all because I knew he wasn’t the kind who enjoyed the exchange of pleasantries.
“How’s she holding up?” He asked. I nodded and walked to take my seat so I could face him.
“She’s recovering. But she’ll be fine.”
