Idon’t know if it’s the nightmare still clawing through my veins, adrenaline mixing with the heat of Anton sitting here, bruised and steady, like he’s the only thing real—or the way his voice dropped low and filthy when he warned me not to look at him like that.
Maybe it’s all of it, crashing together inside me. Fear, relief, want.
Because when Anton Malikov looks at me like that—like he could ruin me or worship me, and doesn’t care which one comes first—it does something to me I can’t explain. My pulse is wild. My skin’s on fire.
I lean forward, closing the gap, and kiss him.
It’s messy—wet cheeks, shaky hands—but he meets me, mouth claiming mine, all control and hunger that wipes my name from my brain. His heat presses in, solid chest, hard muscle, and I’m drowning, lost in him.
His hand grips my shoulder, firm, guiding me back until the mattress catches me, sheets cool against my spine. He follows, caging me, his weight heavy, hot, impossible to ignore.
His fingers slide under my T-shirt, spreading over my ribs, climbing slowly, and my skin prickles, a sharp shiver racing across my flesh like electricity. I gasp into his mouth, sound spilling before I can stop it.
“I… I saved you,” I whisper, words breaking between kisses.
He pulls back, head tilting slightly, breath hitching for a beat as his lips hover over my neck, then press down, hot and deliberate.
“That so?” His hand slides higher, closing over my breast, kneading softly, thumb circling my nipple until my back arches, a moan ripping out.
“Ahhh… fuck.”
“Tell me how you saved me,” he says, mouth dropping to my chest, sucking my nipple through the white T-shirt, the fabric clinging wet, outlining the hard peak as his tongue presses, hot and rough. My hips buck, a sharp cry spilling out, my pussy clenching, soaking my panties.
“I… shot Evan,” I pant, nails scraping his shoulders, digging into muscle. “He was gonna… Fuck, Anton…” His tongue flicks, relentless, and I’m trembling, curves shaking. “I took your gun… saved you.”
He groans, low, raw, like I’ve cracked him open.
“Fuck, you’re a fighter,malyshka,” he says, voice dark, proud, lips brushing my collarbone. “Gunned him down for me?” His thigh presses between mine, spreading me wide, and I feel him—hard, heavy, straining against his pants. My panties cling, damp, as he grinds forward, just enough to make me gasp. “Tell me more.”
“In my dream,” I moan, voice cracking as he sucks my nipple again through the drenched T-shirt, wet and hot, his fingers rolling the other, pinching harder. “I… killed him for you.” My hips rock, desperate, chasing his thigh.
“Good fucking girl,” he says, words rough, dragging me closer, chest to chest, heat searing through my T-shirt. “Learning to take what you want.” His hand slides to my waist, gripping tight, and I’m panting, lost in him, fear melting as his want lights me up.
I’m too deep in this, too far gone, but his desire—fuck, it’s making me burn.
I fumble with his shirt, fingers clumsy on the half-unbuttoned fabric, damp and clinging to his chest. I tug it open, revealing the deep blue-black bruise across his ribs, ugly, raw, and fuck, it makes him hotter, like he’s fought wars and walked back.
My hands slide over his scars, hard planes of muscle, and I want every inch. His holster’s strapped tight, leather cool against my palm. I unhook the buckle, slow, metal clicking, leather creaking as I slide it off his side, the gun’s weight thudding to the floor. I straddle him now, thighs gripping his waist, his cock hard and stiff under his pants, pressing into my core.
“Fuck, Anton,” I pant, grinding down, feeling his length through the fabric. “You’re so hard…” My fingers trace his cock, stroking slowly, the bulge thick, pulsing under my hand.
“Keep touching me,” he demands, his hand sliding under my T-shirt, kneading my breast again, rolling my nipple until I moan, “Ohhh.”
“You feel that,malyshka?” he says, pinching harder, making my pussy clench, soaking my panties more. “Stroke my cock harder, make it ache.”
I do, rubbing faster, fingers tracing the veins through his pants, and he groans, low, “Fuck, yes, like that.” His wounds—bruises, scars—make him look like a goddamn warrior, and I’m losing it, wanting him more, fear gone, replaced by this raw need.
“Take these off,” I whisper, bold, fingers hooking into his pants but not pulling yet, then sliding my panties down my thighs, wet and clinging.
I’m bare now, pussy dripping, straddling him, grinding against his clothed cock, the friction searing my clit.
His hand slides between my legs, fingers grazing my clit, making me gasp. “Anton…”
“Say what you want,” he says, voice dark, circling my clit slowly, teasing. “Tell me, or I stop.”
“I want you,” I pant, grinding harder, voice shaky but sure. “Want your cock inside me.”
My boldness shocks me, but his groan—deep, hungry—spurs me on.
