“Ivan—fuck?—”
“That is the plan.”
He withdraws his fingers. I feel the blunt head of his cock pressing against me, hot and heavy.
“I am going to fuck you until you forget every cold night in that place,” he growls against my ear. “Until the only thing you remember is my name.”
He pushes inside in one long, relentless thrust.
The stretch is intense—he is thick, and it has been three months since anyone touched me—but I welcome it. I want to feel this. I want to feel him claiming me, erasing the exile, writing his ownership back into my body.
“God—” His voice breaks. “You are so tight. So fucking perfect.”
He does not give me time to adjust. He pulls back and slams in again, setting a brutal pace that rocks me forward with every thrust. The leather creaks beneath me, the cabin fills with the sound of skin slapping skin, and I can do nothing but hold on and take it.
This is different from before.
When I topped him, it was about proving something—that I was more than a tool, that I could choose.
But this is about surrender. About letting him have me completely, trusting him with my body the way I trust him with my life.
His hands grip my hips hard enough to bruise, pulling me back onto his cock with every thrust. The angle is perfect, hitting that spot inside me over and over until I am shaking, moaning, reduced to nothing but sensation.
I reach back, my hand finding his thigh, anchoring myself.
“Please,” I gasp. “Harder. Ivan, please.”
He answers with a thrust that drives the air out of my lungs.
“This is what I fought for,” he growls, his breath hot on my neck. “This is what I tore down my father’s empire for. You. This. Having you underneath me, knowing you are mine.”
“Yours—” The word comes out broken, punched out of me. “Always yours?—”
He reaches around and wraps his hand around my cock, stroking me in time with his movements. The dual sensation is overwhelming—him inside me, claiming me, his hand on me, guiding me.
“Come for me.” His grip tightens, his pace turning punishing. “Let me feel you come on my cock.”
The orgasm rips through me without warning. I shout his name, my whole body clenching, spilling over his fist onto the leather below. The sensation triggers his own release—I feel him bury himself deep, feel the hot pulse of him filling me, hear my name torn from his throat like a prayer.
We collapse together onto the couch.
Both of us breathing hard. His body still covering mine, heavy and warm. He is softening inside me but he does not pull out, does not separate us. His lips press against my shoulder, my neck, the space behind my ear.
“I have you,” he whispers. “I have you and I am never letting go.”
I turn my head to kiss him, tasting sweat and desperation and relief.
When he finally eases out of me, I feel empty in a way that has nothing to do with the physical. He pulls me against his chest immediately, wrapping his arms around me as if even a moment of separation is more than he can bear.
“Tell me what happened,” I say, my voice still unsteady.
His arms tighten around me. “My father ordered your liquidation as a test. A final proof that I had learned to function without you.” A pause. “I failed the test.”
“You staged a coup.”
“I staged a coup.” His lips brush against my shoulder. “Lev helped. The lieutenants capitulated. My father is in the Processing Room, deciding whether cooperation will earn him a comfortable exile or a shallow grave.”
I process this information. The Pakhan, overthrown by his own son. The organization, reshaping itself around a new center of gravity.
