“Clean yourself up,” he says.
And I do. Quiet. Obedient. Pretending it doesn’t sting like hell.
Because whatever just cracked open between us?
He slammed it shut.
Hard.
31
Konstantin
The shower’s steam chokes the air, black stone walls slick under my palms, water scalding my back, tracing scars no one’s dared touch. My cock’s sore, raw from her—Bella—andgovno, I curse under my breath, the hiss lost in the spray.
Twice now.
Twice I fucked her bare, no rubber, no sense. She’s on the pill, clean—I know, I checked, every detail locked down before the contract—but knowing doesn’t kill the dread clawing my gut. A kid, a tie, a crack in the walls I’ve built—that’s not the deal. Not with her; she’s just a contract. I slam a fist against the tile, knuckles stinging, and the pain’s good, sharp, grounding.
No more mistakes. Not again.
I shove my head under the spray, water slicing across my face, flooding my eyes, ears, mouth.
Calm the fuck down.
My hands brace against the tile as I drag in air like it’ll cool the blood rushing south. It doesn’t. Doesn’t matter that the water’s scalding, that I’m forcing myself to stand still while everything in me wants to take. Again. Harder.
Pizdets.
I shouldn’t still be hard just thinking about her. But the image of her riding me, trembling, hair wild, her voice breaking when she begged—it’s burned behind my eyes. The way she called my name, her nails scraping my shoulders, her thighs trembling as she came, squeezing me dry.
Suddenly, I realize how close she is—her room, just steps away, no locks to keep me out—but I’m here, alone, washing her off, or trying. My shoulders tense, muscles knotted from the confines of the Cullinan, from holding her, from feeling her.
I should’ve walked away. Pulled out. Said nothing.
Instead?
I held her. Kissed her.
Let my lips brush her temple like a goddamn love-struck idiot.
I twist the faucet.
Hotter.
The water turns blistering, punishing, exactly how I need it. Just to remind myself. This isn’t softness. This isn’t real.
I don’t fuck raw.
I don’t hold women after.
I don’t think about them once I’m gone.
But I’m still in that damn car with her. Still inside her. Still hearing her say my name like it means something.
I hate it; hate how my pulse kicks, how my cock twitches even now, sore as it is.
I grit my teeth, let the hot water pound my neck, and force the thought down.
