My hand moves faster on my cock as I picture her struggling to take my full length. She gags, tears forming in the corners of her eyes, but she doesn’t back down. Never does.
I’d thrust deeper, feeling the tight heat of her throat. My balls tighten as I get close.
“Fuck, Wren,” I grunt, pumping harder. In my mind, I see her hand snaking between her legs, getting herself off while I use her mouth.
I’m so close, teetering on the edge. Just a little more and— But then I catch sight of my reflection again. The scars, the marks of violence etched into my skin. My hand stills.
Would she be disgusted by this body? This patchwork of violence and survival?
The thought hits me like a sucker punch. I slap myself… hard. The sting spreads across my cheek.
“Why the fuck does it matter?” I snarl at my reflection.
But I know why. Because for a moment, in that filthy alley, she made me feel… human. Not themonsterI see in the mirror.
I turn away, unable to look at myself anymore. The weight of my past, the blood on my hands, it’s all there in those scars.
Luka’s father saved me from that hell. Gave me purpose. A family. And how do I repay that? By lusting after his daughter-in-law’s best friend?
“Mudak,” I mutter, grabbing clean clothes.
My cock’s finally starting to soften.
I need to focus. The Bratva needs me. I can’t let some stripper with a death wish fuck that up.
No matter how much I want to fuck her.
I yank on a crisp white shirt, the fabric straining against my chest and biceps.Suka, I need to tell the tailor to stop trying to make this shit fit so tight. Buttons barely hold on as I tuck it into my black slacks.
The tie feels like a noose as I knot it, choking off the last of my dirty thoughts. Or trying to, anyway. My mind keeps drifting back to Wren.
Did she get home safe last night?
The look in her eyes…Blyat, so empty. Like staring into a void.
“Stop it,” I growl at myself, shrugging on the suit jacket. It’s snug across my shoulders, the early morning workout leaving my muscles pumped and aching.
Good. Pain I can deal with. Unlike these fucked-up feelings.
I slide on my holster, the familiar weight of my Glock settling against me. Some men feel naked without their watch.
Me?I feel naked without my piece.
Stepping into my shoes—Italian leather, polished to a shine that could blind you—I catch my reflection again. On the surface, I look like any other businessman. If you ignore the bulge of the gun or the scars peeking out from my collar.
Or the dead look in my eyes.
I run a hand through my hair, trying to shake off the memories.
Yob tvoyu mat’, why can’t I shake her from my head? One fucking kiss in a dirty alley, and I’m losing my mind. Pathetic.
I slam my fist into the locker, the metal denting under the impact. The pain shoots up my arm, grounding me.
This is who I am.
Violence. Power.
Not some love-struck teenager pining after a stripper.
