That does it. I last only a few minutes, the ferocious blur of my hand over my cock stilling as I remember what it felt like to spurt into her hot pussy, sinking myself as deeply as I could. I groan her name as jets of cum hit the shower tiles, painting the wall as I shudder and my knees nearly buckle with the force of the pleasure. I keep stroking until I’ve squeezed out every drop, and even then, it doesn’t feel like enough.
I don’t know how I’m ever going to stop thinking about her.
I shut off the water, wrap a towel around my still-dripping body, and head straight for the kitchen. I yank a bottle off of a shelf, pour myself three fingers of vodka and down it in one swallow. Then I pour another.
The burn doesn't help.
Nothing helps.
I can still feel her. The ghost of her body against mine, the way she clenched around me when she came, the sounds she made. That breathy little gasp when I first pushed inside her. The way she looked at me with those dark eyes, challenging and vulnerable all at once.
I was hardly a virgin.
The words echo in my head, sharp and cutting. She'd wanted to hurt me with that—wanted me to know she'd been with other men, that I wasn't special. And it worked, but not the way she intended.
Because all I could think as I thrust into her was that I don't care. I don't care who else has had her. I don't care about her past or her body count or any of it. I don’t give a fuck about notbeing the first, but all I can think is that right now it feels worth dying for if I could be the last.
I just want her again.
I finish the second drink and set the glass down harder than necessary. The sound echoes in the empty apartment.
This is insane. I'm insane.
She's Ilya's ex-fiancée. She's traumatized. She's vulnerable. She told me to fuck off, and I know she meant it.
And I'm standing here in my kitchen, hard as a rock, thinking about all the ways I want to have her again.
I need to sleep and clear my head. Need to stop thinking about her for five fucking minutes.
But when I close my eyes, all I see is her.
—
Ilya wastedno time texting me after our call, letting me know that he wanted me to meet him later in the afternoon. I manage to push Svetlana out of my head long enough to get dressed and eat something resembling a real meal, and then I drive myself to Ilya’s office in the financial district, where he does business some of the time to keep up the appearance of legitimacy.
I’ve been here a thousand times, but this is the first time I’m walking in with a secret that could get me killed.
Security barely looks at me as I walk in—they all know me, respect me, and a fair few of them fear me. As Ilya’s right hand, I’ve earned that over the years.
My heart is beating faster than it should be. Not enough that anyone would notice, but I feel it, that acceleration. The awareness of my own pulse.
I'm good at this. I've lied to dangerous men before. But this is different.
This is Ilya.
The elevator ride to the forty-second floor feels longer than usual. I watch the numbers climb, forcing my breathing to stay even and my expression to remain neutral. I can't afford to slip. Not even for a second.
When the doors open, Ilya's assistant looks up from her desk. "He's expecting you. Go right in."
I nod my thanks and move toward the heavy wooden door. When I step in, Ilya is standing by the window, looking out over Boston, a phone pressed to his ear. He's dressed impeccably as always in a tailored suit with a crisp white shirt and no tie. He gestures for me to sit without turning around. He's speaking Russian, his tone clipped and businesslike. Something about a shipment and a delay, and someone who needs to be reminded of their obligations. It could mean anything from a legitimate business deal to someone ending up in the harbor.
I take the chair across from his desk and wait, my posture relaxed—or at least, I try to appear relaxed. Inside, every nerve is on high alert. I let my gaze drift around the office, careful not to look too interested or too bored. Just a man waiting for his friend to finish a call.
Finally, Ilya ends the call and turns to face me.
"Kazimir." He smiles, and it looks genuine enough. "Good to see you back in one piece."
"Good to be back." My voice is steady. Easy.
