“Come for me,” he says, voice low, gruff, thumb circling harder.
I shatter, crying out, “Ahhhh!” my body convulsing, pussy squeezing his fingers, soaking his hand under the water. He holds me up, his cock hard against my thigh, as I come down, shaking.
“Fuck,malyshka,” he says, pulling his fingers out, lifting them to his mouth, sucking them clean. “You taste like mine.” His words hit deep, and I’m not scared. I’m ready for more.
Water drums us, steam curling, and I tug at his pants, the last barrier, ripping them down his thighs, freeing his cock—thick, veined, pulsing. He kicks them off, and I strip my bra, letting it slap the tiles, my lush breasts bare, water streaming over my curves. We’re naked now, skin slick, pressed tight, his hard body against my soft one, sweat and water mixing in the heat. He lifts me, pinning me to the tiled wall, my legs wrapping his waist, and thrusts deep, his cock stretching me wide, filling me completely.
“You’re so tight.” Slamming into me, each thrust brutal, raw.
I gasp, nails digging into his shoulders, scraping his scars, his muscles flexing under my hands. He fucks me harder, water splashing, his cock pulsing, and I meet every thrust, bold, fearless, my curves bouncing against him.
“Harder,” I say, daring. “Fuck me harder.”
He groans low, driving deeper, veins throbbing inside me. My pussy grips him tight, and I feel him tense, his breath ragged,then he comes, spilling hot inside me, a second time, his curse in Russian, his deep voice vibrating against my neck.
He holds me there, legs still wrapped around him, water streaming over us, our breaths heavy, ragged. His cock softens inside me, but he doesn’t pull out, keeping us pressed together, his scarred chest against my breasts, slick skin sliding. I’m trembling, not from fear but from this fire, this need that’s rewritten me.
And even as I cling to him, lost in the aftershocks, the thought slides in, unwelcome, undeniable: I need to get Plan B today.
The idea burns through the haze, sharp and cold against all this heat. Because the last thing I can afford is to let this man inside me change more than he already has.
I look up at him, water dripping from his jaw, his face raw, open, like he’s seeing me for the first time.
“We need Plan B.”
23
Anton
We’d driven back from the gym in our wet clothes.
10:47 PM.The numbers glow from my Patek Philippe as I button a dry shirt, still feeling the heat of her skin under that shower spray.
We need Plan B.
Christ. I’d been so lost in her—the way she gasped my name, how she clawed at my shoulders, the sweet sting of her nails on my scars—that I hadn’t thought about anything else. Not protection. Not consequences. Not the fact that I’d come inside heragain.
Suka, what’s wrong with me?
I grab a black jacket from the closet, muscle memory taking over while my mind reels. When was the last time I’d been this reckless? Never. I don’t do reckless. Reckless gets you killed in my world. Gets the people you care about killed.
But Mary… she rewrote every fucking rule the moment she walked into my life.
The elevator hums as I descend, my reflection staring back from the polished steel doors. I look like what I am: a man who just fucked a woman senseless and is now dealing with the aftermath. Hair still damp, shirt hastily thrown on, that satisfied-but-unsettled look that comes after crossing lines you can’t uncross.
The controlled, calculating Anton Malikov, who plans every move three steps ahead, just spent an hour lost in a woman’s body, consequences be damned. I’m the one who’s been changed. Completely.
The garage is cool, my footsteps echoing as I make my way to the Mercedes. I slide into the driver’s seat, engine purring to life.
As I pull out onto The Strip, the thought I’ve been avoiding hits me full force: What if she’s already pregnant?
My hands tighten on the steering wheel. A child. My child. In this world of violence and vendetta and men who’d use an innocent life as leverage against me.
No.
The CVS sign glows ahead—24 HOUR PHARMACY in sterile blue letters. I’ve killed men for less than looking at me wrong, dismantled entire operations with surgical precision, built an empire on fear and respect. But the idea of walking into that fluorescent-lit store and buying Plan B for the woman sleeping in my bed? It feels like stepping into alien territory.
I park and sit for a moment, watching other late-night customers drift in and out. A woman in scrubs, probably getting off a hospital shift. A guy in a rumpled suit who looks like he’s had the kind of night that requires immediate medical intervention. A teenager with purple hair buying what looks like energy drinks and condoms.
