“You like that, don’t you?” he murmurs, lips brushing my jaw, his voice pure sin. He pulls back just enough to watch my face, tosee the way I unravel as his hand slides lower, past my waist, my hip, until it hovers over the damp lace between my legs. “Look at you. So fucking wet for me already.”
I try to grind against him, desperate for more, my hips chasing the heat of his body, but he’s a fucking wall, unyielding.
“Such a bad girl,” he hisses, his voice a low, filthy rasp that curls around my nerves like smoke, making me drip down my thighs. “So needy, so ready to come for me right here, aren’t you? You think you can steal what I haven’t given?”
“Fuck,” I moan.
His lips brush my ear, each word a slow burn. “I could keep you like this all night,krasavitsa—wet, trembling, begging for my cock while I make you ache. You’d come just from my voice, wouldn’t you? Just from me telling you how I’m gonna ruin you later, how I’ll fuck you so deep you’ll feel me for days.”
Jesus.
His dirty words hit like a freight train, my core pulsing, my breath hitching as I teeter on the edge of release without a single touch to push me over.
I don’t even know who I am right now—just a body, a heartbeat, a pulse pounding for him.
He holds me still, his grip on my wrist tightening. His fingers trace the outline of my panties, then slip beneath, grazing my clit with the lightest touch. He doesn’t push inside—doesn’t need to. He circles, slow and torturous, spreading my slickness, making me throb with every pass. My pussy clenches around nothing, aching, begging, but he keeps me teetering on the edge, his touch too precise, too controlled.
“Fuck, please,” I whimper, my free hand clawing at his trousers, finding him—God, he’s massive, his cock so hard it’s practically punching through the fabric, stabbing into my thigh as I press closer. I cup him, squeezing, and he lets out a low, guttural sound that makes my insides twist.
“Greedy little thing,” he says, almost amused, but his eyes are blazing, feral. “You want this?” He rocks his hips just once, letting me feel every inch of him through the cloth, thick and hard, before pulling back. “Not yet.”
Before I can protest, his fingers hook into my panties and rip. The lace shreds, the sound raw and filthy, leaving me bare, my skin prickling under his gaze. He holds the ruined scrap in his fist, then tucks it into his pocket like a trophy.
“No panties tonight,” he says, voice dark as midnight. “I want you bare under that dress,krasavitsa. I want you walking into that Summit knowing you’re dripping for me, knowing I could have you any second I choose.”
He circles my clit one last time, agonizingly slow, and I’m shaking, my thighs slick, my body screaming for release he won’t give. Then he steps back, leaving me panting, pinned against the wall by the ghost of his touch. My breasts are still exposed, nipples throbbing from his teasing, my core pulsing with need.
“Get dressed,” he says, voice cold now, all business, like he didn’t just set my blood on fire. He nods at the scarlet gown, its fabric gleaming like a challenge. “The red one. Don’t make me wait.”
I open my mouth—to beg, to curse him—but he’s already turning, adjusting his cufflinks like he’s untouched, unshaken.
“You’ll get what you need,” he adds, glancing back, a smirk curling his lips. “When I say you’re ready.”
The curtain drops behind him, and I’m left clutching the wall, my chest heaving, my body an electrical wire sparking with want. The red gown mocks me from its hanger, daring me to step into his world, bare and aching. And fuck, I know I’m already too far gone to say no.
26
Konstantin
The curtain falls behind me, and I force my legs to move, each step a battle against the fire raging in my veins. My cock’s so hard it’s throbbing, a traitor straining against my trousers, screaming to turn back and bury itself in Bella’s tight, dripping heat. My balls ache, heavy with need, every pulse a reminder of how close I came to losing it in there—pinning her to that wall, her moans in my mouth, her slick little pussy begging for me. Fuck. I’m Konstantin Belov, the man who bends empires to my will, and yet that woman’s got me one breath from unraveling like a goddamn teenager.
I stalk to the private lounge at the end of Bergdorf’s suite, the one they keep for men like me—dim lights, leather chairs, a decanter of Macallan that costs more than most people’s rent.
The stylist’s gone, scurried off like a rat when I barked her name. Good. I need space to think, to shove this hunger back into its cage.
I pour two fingers of scotch, the glass cool against my palm, but it does nothing to dull the memory of Bella’s skin—soft, flushed, trembling under my fingers. Her nipples, stiff and perfect, practically begged for my tongue. And that look in her eyes, defiance mixed with raw want, like she’d burn the world down just to make me fuck her.
I sink into the chair, legs spread, trying to ease the pressure in my groin. My mind’s a war zone. Part of me wants to storm back in there, rip that red dress off the hanger, and take her on that velvet chaise until she’s screaming my name loud enough to crack the mirrors. But I don’t break. Not for anyone. Not even for her, with her smart mouth and those curves that make me want to sin in ways that’d make the devil blush. She’s my wife—my asset, my move on the board—and I’ll be damned if I let her see how much she’s fucking with my head.
Still, there’s something else clawing at me, softer, dangerous. The way she leaned into my touch, not just craving my cock but me, like I’m more than the bastard who owns her contract.
It’s a flicker of warmth I haven’t felt since—fuck, ever. I shove it down hard. Affection’s a liability. But Christ, when she whispered my name, all fire and need, it hit like a blade to the chest, sharp and sweet.
And now, all I can think about is her beneath me, that tight little body open and ready. I want to stretch her pussy with my cock, slow and deep, every inch claiming her until she’s trembling, gasping, begging me for more. I’d take my time, make her feel every thrust, watch her eyes glaze over as she pleads for release I won’t give until I’m good and ready. She’d be mine—completely, undeniably—her moans the only sound in my world. The thought alone has my blood pounding, my control fraying at the edges, but I hold it together. She’s not getting that yet. Not until I decide she’s earned it.
My phone vibrates, sharp against my thigh. I pull it out, eyes narrowing at Timur’s text:
Car’s here. Minister of Commerce is in the lounge. Wants to talk Hudson Yards—says the township deal’s got issues.
