My breath catches, heat pooling low, and I imagine her sighing like that under me, her lips parting, body arching. I grit my teeth, dragging the towel down her throat, where bruises are already forming, finger marks from that fucker.
My jaw clenches, and I press the towel there, lingering, as if I could erase his touch. Her blouse is ruined. I find the buttons—what’s left of them—and ease it off her shoulders, careful, my fingers grazing her skin. She doesn’t stir, but her warmth burns through me, a fire I can’t douse.
Her bra’s ruined too. Blood on the straps. One cup halfway off, the other clinging to her like it’s begging me not to look.
I unhook it.
Because it’s stained. Because she shouldn’t sleep in it.
Because I want toseeher.
Her tits spill out like they’ve been waiting for air. Full. Perfect. Pink nipples tight in the cool air, so fucking beautiful I want to suck them, taste her, claim every inch.
My imagination runs wild: her moaning under my mouth, hips bucking, my hands gripping those curves. My cock throbs, a pulsing ache, and I curse under my breath, “Fuck, Anton, get it together.”
The towel glides over her sternum, slow, torturous, brushing her nipple, and she moans again, soft, oblivious. My dick’s screaming, hard as steel, and I’m drowning in her—her scent, soap and fear, her skin, too soft for my world. I wipe lower, over her ribs, her stomach’s smooth plane, and every touch is a fight to stay in control.
“You’re killing me,” I curse under my breath, pressing the towel harder than I need to—not to hurt her, to punishme.
I look at her, this beautiful, full-curvy woman, and frustration burns like acid.
She’s everything Ishouldn’twant. Soft where I’m hard, alive where I deal death. Her hips flare in a maddening arc, begging my hands to trace them, her breasts heavy, nipples taunting me, her skin glowing under the penthouse’s soft light. I imaginepinning her to this couch, her moans filling the air, my mouth on her, claiming what’s not mine.
My cock throbs, a relentless ache, and I grit my teeth, forcing myself to stand, to move away. I’m amonster—Bratva, forged in blood—but I’m not the bastard who’d touch her like this, unconscious, broken.
I step back, towel clenched in my fist, my body screaming to close the distance, to take what it wants. I head to the walk-in closet, bigger than my old life, lined with suits and shirts I’ve never worn, all cedar and wealth. I grab a white button-down, oversized, crisp, smelling of clean cotton.
Back at the couch, I ease Mary up, her head lolling, another soft moan slipping out, maddening, like she’s taunting me in her sleep.
Blyat. My cock hardens again.
“Fucking traitor,” I curse.
I slip her arm through one sleeve, then the other. I wrap the shirt around her front, pulling it closed, and I button it slowly. Not because I need to.
Because I can’t stop staring.
The fabric swallows her frame, hides those pink nipples I can’t unsee. I lay her back down gently, cover her with the cashmere throw I found folded like a hotel towel at the end of the couch.
My heart’s still hammering.
From her.
From the way my body won’t listen.
From the part of me that wants to crawl onto that couch, slide her legs apart, and taste every inch of her until sheknowswho she belongs to.
I clench my fists.
Hard.
Then step away
18
Mary
The air smells of garlic. Warm and buttery.
