"Yours," I gasp, my hips rocking against his hand. "I'm yours, Nikolai."
He adds a third finger, and I cry out, my nails digging into his shoulders. The pressure builds, coiling tight in my core, and I'm already trembling. "More. Please, I need?—"
He spins me around, pressing my palms flat against the cool tile wall. The contrast of the cold surface against my heated skin makes me shiver. I feel him behind me, his hard length pressing against my lower back, and anticipation floods through me.
"Look at you," he murmurs, his hands gripping my hips. "So beautiful. So desperate for me."
He positions himself at my entrance, teasing me with the head of his cock, sliding it through my wetness without pushing inside. I whimper, pushing back against him, but he holds me still.
"Patience,Solnyshka. I want to savor this."
He enters me slowly, inch by inch, and I feel every part of him as he stretches me open. The sensation is overwhelming. The fullness, the intimacy, the raw need radiating from both of us. When he's fully inside, he stills for a moment, his forehead dropping to my shoulder.
"You feel like Heaven," he whispers, and then he begins to move.
His thrusts are slow at first, deliberate, each one sending sparks of pleasure through my entire body. I push back against him, meeting his rhythm, and he groans, his grip on my hips tightening. The water cascades over us as he picks up the pace, driving deeper, harder, and I'm lost in the sensation of him filling me completely.
Then my phone starts buzzing on the counter. Once. Twice. A rapid succession of chimes and vibrations that echo off the bathroom tiles, insistent and urgent.
"Ignore it," Nikolai growls against my throat, his hips never stopping their rhythm. He pulls almost all the way out before slamming back inside me, making me cry out.
But the notifications keep coming, one after another, the sound cutting through the haze of pleasure. My body is torn between the building pressure of my orgasm and the nagging urgency of whatever is making my phone explode with alerts. I try to focus on Nikolai, on the way he's moving inside me, but I can't shake the feeling that something is wrong.
"Nikolai, I—" I gasp, even as my body betrays me, clenching around him.
"Stay with me," he demands, one hand sliding around to find my clit. "Right here. With me."
I do. But not for long. Just enough time for us to climax and shudder. The sound is too insistent, too urgent. I pull away from him despite the protest of my body, wrapping a towel around myself as I move toward where I left my phone on the counter.
The screen is lit up with dozens of notifications. Emails. Text messages. Social media alerts. All flooding in simultaneously, and my stomach drops before I even unlock it.
Another photograph from the island blazes across my screen.
This one is worse than all the others. So much worse. I'm almost completely naked, just the barest scrap of fabric covering me, and the angle leaves nothing to the imagination. The intimacy is devastating, the vulnerability absolute, and I feel bile rise in my throat.
My phone explodes with media requests demanding interviews, reporters asking for statements, and gossip sites offering money for exclusive access. The notifications keep coming, one after another, until the screen is nothing but a blur of names and numbers.
44
NIKOLAI
Istand at the window of my study, watching the morning light filter through the curtains while my mind catalogs strategies with cold efficiency. The photograph from last night still burns in my memory. Aria, nearly naked on that beach, the intimacy captured in brutal clarity. Every news outlet in the city is running with it, dissecting our most private moments like they're public property.
My phone vibrates against my thigh. Yaroslav, my tech specialist.
"Tell me you have something," I say without preamble.
"Better than something, Boss." His voice carries that edge of satisfaction that means he's found a solution. "I can create forensic evidence that the photographs have been digitally manipulated. Metadata alterations, pixel inconsistencies, shadow angles that don't match the time stamps. Enough to plant reasonable doubt."
"How long?"
"Forty-eight hours for a complete package. Documentation that will hold up to expert scrutiny."
"Do it." I end the call and turn to find Aria standing in the doorway.
She's wearing one of my shirts, the fabric hanging to mid-thigh, and despite everything, my body responds with heat that has nothing to do with strategy. Her dark hair is still damp from the shower, her face scrubbed clean of makeup, and the bandage on her temple reminds me how close I came to losing her last night.
"We need to talk," she says, her voice steady despite the exhaustion pulling at her features.
