MAKSIM
We did it.
The words keep circling through my mind as Ivan drives us back to the motel, the Civic's headlights cutting through the pre-dawn darkness. We did it. Boris's main distribution center is burning behind us, the flames visible in the rearview mirror as a faint orange glow against the grey sky. Two hundred thousand in additional cash sits in the bag at my feet. The laptop we already have contains enough evidence to destroy him ten times over.
Five days of raids. Five days of running and hiding and fighting side by side. And now it is over. Boris has nothing left to protect. His soldiers will scatter, his allies will distance themselves, and when Ivan presents the evidence to his father, the Pakhan will have no choice but to act.
We won.
The adrenaline is still singing through my veins when we reach the motel room. The same stained carpet, the same questionable sheets, the same television that has never been turned on. But the weight of fear that has hung over every moment of the pastweek is gone, replaced by something lighter. Something that feels almost like joy.
Ivan drops the bag on the desk and turns to face me. His clothes are dirty, his face streaked with soot from the fire we set to cover our exit, and there is a cut on his cheek that he has not acknowledged despite the blood that has dried along its edges.
He is beautiful. And he is mine.
I am on him before he can speak.
My mouth crashes into his, swallowing whatever words he was about to say. This is not the careful exploration of the cabin, not the slow discovery of what we could be to each other. This is adrenaline and triumph and five days of tension finally snapping. I shove him back against the wall and he grunts into the kiss, his hands already tearing at my jacket.
"Bed," he manages between kisses. "Now."
We do not make it to the bed. Not at first.
I spin him around and press him face-first into the wall, my chest against his back, my cock already hard against his ass. He groans and pushes back into me, grinding, and the friction makes me see sparks.
"Impatient," I growl into his ear, my hands working his belt open from behind.
"We just burned down a warehouse. I have earned impatient."
I laugh against his neck and bite down on the muscle where it meets his shoulder. He shudders, his palms flat against the wall, his head dropping forward. I yank his pants down just far enough to free him, wrapping my hand around his cock frombehind. He is already hard, already leaking, and the feel of him hot and thick in my palm makes my own cock throb.
"Fuck—" He bucks into my fist. "Maksim?—"
I stroke him rough and fast, no finesse, just raw friction. My other hand shoves his shirt up so I can rake my nails down his back, leaving red lines that will mark him for days. He arches into the pain, always surprising me with how much he wants it, how the heir to an empire craves being taken apart.
"Do you know what I thought about during every raid?" I twist my wrist on the upstroke and he chokes out a moan. "You. Underneath me. Making those sounds you make when I am inside you."
"Then stop talking and fuck me."
The command sends heat blazing through my veins. I release him and spin him back around, lifting him. His legs wrap around my waist automatically, his back against the wall, and I carry him to the bed like that—mouths fused together, his hands in my hair, both of us still half-dressed and desperate.
I drop him onto the mattress and strip. No patience for buttons—I tear my shirt over my head, kick off my boots, shove my pants down. He watches with dark eyes, his own hand working his cock while I get naked, and the sight of him stroking himself while waiting for me makes something feral rise in my chest.
"On your stomach," I order.
He obeys instantly, flipping over, presenting himself. His ass is perfect—pale, unmarked, waiting. I grab the lube from the nightstand and slick my fingers, not bothering to warm it. He hisses when I press two fingers into him at once.
"You can take it," I say, working him open with rough efficiency. He is still loose from last night, his body remembering me, and he opens fast.
"I can take more than that." He looks over his shoulder, eyes blazing. "Stop treating me like I will break."
I add a third finger and curl them hard against his prostate. His whole body jerks and he buries his face in the pillow, muffling his shout. I do it again. Again. Watching his hands fist in the sheets, watching his hips grind down into the mattress seeking friction.
"Enough." I pull my fingers out and slick my cock. "I need to be inside you."
I do not give him time to respond. I line up and push in—one long, relentless slide until I am buried to the hilt. He takes it beautifully, his body yielding, a low groan spilling from his throat that sounds like relief.
I do not start slow. There is no slow left in me, not after five days of running and fighting and wanting. I pull back and slam in, setting a brutal pace that makes the headboard crack against the wall. The cheap motel bed protests with every thrust, springs squealing, and I do not care. Let the whole building hear.
