Tonight she will swallow every drop while I choke her with my belt.
I come hard. Ropes hit the tiles with wet slaps. Body shudders, muscles spasming. I brace both palms on the wall, head bowed, steam swirling. Breath ragged. Trying to claw back control.
It doesn’t work. Not even close.
My cock is still throbbing as I put on my suit. I crack my neck and roll my shoulders.
I open the door, stepping into the hallway. Kaden’s already waiting outside.
“Wait.”
Her voice cuts through the walls, soft but loud enough to halt me. I exhale hard, shove my fists into my pockets, trying to keep them there instead of around her waist, pinning her to the nearest wall.
She stops behind me. I turn—
This little devil’s barefoot, wrapped inmyshirt again. Hair pulled high, strands loose around her face like she’s posing for a fucking punishment.
“What, Autumn?” My voice is low, flat. I don’t have the energy for this game, not now.
“My orders should arrive today. And I’m guessing…” She motions toward the suit. “You’re leaving?”
I nod once.
“So?”
Her brows lift, attitude showing.
“One of the security team will bring it up when it gets here.” I turn, already walking.
“Can you tell them not to open it?” she calls after me. “It’s my underwear. And all that.”
“They won’t,” I answer without turning.I’d cut their fucking hands off if they did.
Kaden stares at me as I go down the stairs and lets out a low chuckle. “Oh, shit.”
“Don’t, Kaden.” I head to the bike, grab the helmet.
“Not saying a word, boss.” He smirks darkly.
The bikes roar to life, engines snarling against the quiet night. We tear down the driveway and shoot into the open road, wind slicing past, headlights carving through the dark. The air’s cold and dry. The sea mist won’t fuck with visibility tonight.
City lights fall away behind us, replaced by shadows and the low rumble of the coastline. The hotel appears like a fortress, dark glass, quiet guards, and the weight of old money in its bones.
We slow at the entrance. Christian Keeffe’s already there, standing straight in his tailored suit, hands clasped like a man trying not to sweat. He nods as we kill the engines.
Inside, the elevator groans as it takes us to the top floor. The suites where our guests will sleep, if they sleep at all.
Christian hands me the confirmed list.
I flick through it as we step into the main bedroom, Kaden reading over my shoulder.
“Rurik Vostrikov,” Kaden reads aloud.
“The eldest,” I confirm. “The real voice of the Bratva. Step one word out of line with him, and you’re choking on your own teeth.”
“Stepan’s the middle one. Mila’s the youngest,” Christian adds, pulling out the layout of the floor.
“Rurik’s bringing his wife. So is Stepan. Mila stays alone.” He taps the paper, showing room numbers inked next to names.
