Her buttons scatter, and the lace beneath rips. Her breasts spill free, nipples already hard from the shock.
I bite down on one, sucking hard enough to bruise. She cries out, arching, fingers digging into my shoulders.
“You want to fix this?” I snarl against her skin. “You want to pay for what he took?”
I shove her skirt up and rip her panties aside. My fingers plunge into her pussy without warning, two, then three, finding her slick, clenching around me despite herself.
“Yes,” she rasps, hips shifting against my hand. “If this helps you... If this makes it right... Take it. I’m sorry, Konstantin. I’m so sorry.”
Her apology is fuel.
I pump harder, curling my fingers, hitting that spot in her pussy that makes her thighs tremble. She’s wet, body responding even as her eyes fill with tears, but she doesn’t beg. She lets me take, whispering broken apologies, desperate to give me what she thinks I need to ease the wound her family carved.
I yank my belt open and shove my trousers down enough to free my cock. Thick, aching, leaking at the tip.
She drops to her knees without me asking, eyes locked on mine, wide with remorse. Her hands wrap around me, gentle at first, then firmer, stroking slowly before she leans in and takes my cock into her mouth.
The heat is devastating. Her tongue swirls around the head, then deeper as she hollows her cheeks, sucking. I fist her hair, guiding her roughly, hips jerking forward to meet her throat. She gags but doesn’t pull back. She takes more.
I growl, thrusting shallowly, watching her lips stretch around my cock, the way she works me with steady strokes.
She’s not chasing her own pleasure. She’s trying to erase the past with every careful movement, every muffled apology.
It’s too much.
I pull her off with a wet pop, haul her up, and spin her to face the bookshelf, bending her forward. Her palms slap against the wood for balance. I kick her legs wider, notch my cock at her pussy entrance, pressing enough to feel her heat, her slickness coating the tip.
She doesn’t push back or beg. She whispers, “If this is what you need to make the pain stop, do it.”
I look down at her, bent over, skirt rucked up, blouse torn. She’s trembling not from want but from the weight of guilt.
Her eyes meet mine in the reflection of the bookshelf glass. The exact shade of Arthur’s. The same eyes that must have looked at my father when he sold us out. The same eyes that watched his empire grow on the ashes of my mother and sister.
The world tilts.
Ice floods my veins.
I’m a heartbeat from thrusting into her pussy, into the daughter of the man who murdered my family, and she’s offering it like penance, like her body could balance the scales.
I freeze.
My hand tightens in her hair, painfully, then releases. I step away. My cock is still wet, throbbing angrily in the open air.
Hands shaking, I turn my back on the act. On her.
She straightens slowly, leaning against the bookshelf for support. Her skirt falls back into place, and her blouse hangs open.
“Konstantin?” she whispers.
My chest heaves, fighting for air. I take in her reflection in the darkened window. She’s looking at me with those damn green eyes. Arthur’s eyes.
The hate rises in my throat, choking me, warring with a lust so violent it terrifies me. If I take her now, I won’t stop. I’ll break her just to see if she bleeds the same color as my sister.
"Get out.”
She steps forward, reaching out. "But?—"
"Go!" I roar, grabbing a glass and shattering it against the hearth. "Before I forget who you are."
