“Eyes on me,” he orders. “I want to watch you forget everything he did to you.”
I force my gaze upward. His pupils have dilated enough to make his wintery eyes dark, but something else is there, too. Something akin to reverence.
“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Only me. Right now.”
He slides two fingers inside me while his thumb maintains pressure on my clit. He curls them forward, finding the spot that makes my back arch off the cabinet. I’m trembling beneath him, caught between his grip on my wrists and the steady, punishing rhythm of his hand.
“You’re so tight,” he says against my ear. “So wet. You’re doing so good, golubka. Do you have any idea what you do to me?”
I can’t answer. I can barely breathe.
“Let go,” he commands. “Come on my fingers.”
At his command, I shatter.
The orgasm crashes through me, pulling me under. I hear myself cry out—his name, maybe, or just wordless sounds of pleasure. His hand on my wrists is the only thing keeping me tethered. Wave after wave rolls through me, and he works me through each tremor until I’m boneless and gasping.
He cleans his fingers with a slow swipe of his tongue, the same calm precision he uses to check locks.
When I finally come back to myself, I’m trembling all over.
Pyotr releases my wrists and takes them in his hands, one at a time. He runs his thumbs over the skin, checking for marks. His touch is gentle now, so different from the commanding grip of moments ago.
“You okay?”
I shake my head. Words won’t come yet.
He lifts my wrists to his mouth and kisses each one. The tenderness of it makes my throat tight.
Then he rises and disappears. I hear water running in the kitchen. A moment later, he’s back with a glass.
“Drink.”
I take the water with shaking hands and sip slowly while he retrieves my shirt from the floor. He pulls it over my head, guiding my arms through the sleeves. The intimacy of it undoes me more than the orgasm did.
I watch him move through the apartment, testing locks and checking windows. Walking his ritual around the perimeter like nothing happened. Like he didn’t just take me apart with his hands while I fell to pieces on my kitchen floor.
He never even kissed me.
The realization sends a fresh wave of heat through my oversensitive body. This terrifying Bratva enforcer, who could snap bones without breaking a sweat, made me come harder than I ever have in my life. And he did it without once pressing his lips to mine.
What would have happened if he’d kissed me? If he’d taken his time instead of grounding me through a panic attack? If we’d made it to a bed instead of the cold tile floor?
The thought makes me clench my thighs together.
He returns and lowers himself onto the floor beside me, leaning against the cabinet. He’s still enough to feel his body heat even though we’re not quite touching.
The boundary between us has crumbled. Neither of us seems to know how to rebuild it.
I’m not sure I want to.
11
Pyotr
I can still feel her trembling beneath my hands.
It’s been almost twenty-four hours since I left Daria on the kitchen floor, and my mind keeps circling back to the same images. The way her eyes went glassy when she shattered. The soft sounds she made against my palm. The trust in her face when she asked me to take over.
