Her breathing is ragged now. I'm halfway down her back, exposing more skin with each button.
"You're mine, Vera Maksimova," I say, voice dropping to that commanding tone. "Mine to touch. Mine to claim. Mine to breed. Say it."
"I'm yours."
"Good girl."
I finish the last button and step back, letting the dress slip from her shoulders. It pools at her feet in a puddle of white satin and lace, leaving her in white lingerie—lace bra, matching panties, garter belt, stockings.
"Fuck," I breathe. "Perfect. Turn around. Let me see you."
She turns slowly, and the sight of her nearly brings me to my knees. Virgin bride. Mine to corrupt. Mine to claim.
"Come here."
She walks to me on shaking legs. I pull her against me, feeling every soft curve pressed against my still-clothed body.
"Tonight, you become mine completely," I tell her, hands roaming possessively over her barely-covered body. "No more waiting. No more restraint. Just you and me and forever."
I sweep her into my arms again, carry her to the bed, lay her down carefully on the white sheets.
Then I start undressing, never breaking eye contact. Jacket. Tie. Shirt—revealing the full extent of my tattoos. Her eyes widen, tracing the ink across my chest, my arms, my back.
"Like what you see?" I ask, unbuckling my belt.
She nods, unable to look away.
I drop my pants, my cock springing free, hard and ready. I watch her eyes go wide as she sees me fully naked for the first time.
"That's what you do to me," I say, stroking myself once. "That's what you've done to me for two years. And now, I get to sink into you and make you mine."
6
Vera
Alone. Withhim.
My husband starts undressing.
Jacket first, draped over a chair with controlled precision. Tie next, pulled loose and discarded. His hands move to his shirt buttons and I can't look away as he reveals himself inch by inch.
The tattoos.
God, the tattoos.
I've seen hints of them on his hands and his neck, but nothing prepared me for the full scope. They cover his chest in intricate detail. Orthodox stars on his shoulders. A cathedral spanning his pectorals. The Virgin Mary over his heart. Cyrillic script I can't read winding around his ribs.
He's built like a predator, with broad shoulders, defined chest, ridges of muscle across his abdomen. Silver hair trails down from his navel, disappearing beneath his pants. Scars cut through the ink here and there, pale lines that tell stories of violence.
He's forty-five years old but his body is hard, powerful, maintained. This is a man who's killed with these hands. Who's survived things that would break lesser men.
And he's about to use that body on me.
He unbuckles his belt, the leather sliding free with a soft hiss that makes me flinch. Unbuttons his pants. Lowers the zipper.
Then he pushes everything down, pants, boxer briefs, all of it, and steps out of them.
I stop breathing.
