I stared where Anthea had disappeared, my mind filling in the gaps. Her naked under the spray. Head tilted back, exposing that vulnerable, tempting throat. Water running through her hair, down her collarbones, over her breasts, pooling between her thighs...
My throat burned. My cock throbbed. Six years I hadn't touched another woman. My body, my heart—both turned into a tomb. But now, something stirred inside. Six years of buried need erupting all at once.
I reached for my belt, pulled out my cock already leaking at the tip. Veins bulging, aching to sink into something warm and wet, aching for Anthea's heat. But all it had now was cold air and my rough palm.
I gripped it tight, started stroking. My imagination filled what I couldn't see.
I imagined Anthea's soft lips wrapped around me, tongue teasing, giving me wet heat and friction. Or her warm, tight pussy sucking me in, silky and slick but so tight I couldn't breathe.
Those wild nights came back sharp and clear. Her straddling me, eyes hazy, calling my name. Me slamming into her, each thrust making her shake and moan. Her on her knees, ass high, me taking her from behind, each slap obscene and wet. Her moans getting faster, begging me deeper, harder, to fuck her raw.
"Anthea." I forced her name through clenched teeth, voice wrecked.
Sweat dripped from my forehead. My breathing roughened. I moved faster, brutal and desperate, each stroke pain and pleasure mixed. Minutes later, I groaned and came, white streaking the floor, the smell thick and musky.
I sagged against the wall, gasping. The high faded fast, leaving only deeper emptiness and rage. Not enough. Nowhere near enough. I wanted her to love me again, to come to my bed willingly, to let me fuck her.
My phone buzzed. A message.
"Pakhan, got him in the alley."
I glanced at the window. Anthea's lights were off now. Perfect timing. By the time I finished this, she'd be asleep.
I strode out of the apartment, headed to the alley I'd designated.Narrow and dark, tucked behind Anthea's building. One streetlamp at the entrance flickered on and off. Late night. No foot traffic.
I stood in the shadows at the mouth of the alley, watched my men—two massive Russian bruisers—drag Julian out of a car.
"Who are you?" Julian struggled, glasses crooked. "I'm a lawyer. This is kidnapping, it's illegal! I'll have you thrown in prison!"
My men ignored his threats and cracked their knuckles expressionlessly. I watched, cold. A lawyer? So what?
First punch hit Julian's gut. He doubled over, gagged.
But he kept yelling, clinging to some pathetic dignity. "Do you know who I am? I know the DA, I know—"
Second punch. Third. Fourth. Not just his gut now—his face too. Julian screamed, curled up, hands covering his face, all that bluster gone.
"Stop, please stop!" He was terrified now, begging. "What do you want? Money? I have money!"
His glasses were gone, somewhere in the dirt. Suit wrinkled and twisted. Face bruised purple and blue, eyes swelling shut. I laughed, low and contemptuous. This was the man Anthea wanted to lean on? Pathetic.
I stepped out of the shadows. My men cleared a path. Julian looked up, squinting through swollen eyes, trying to see my face. Failed.
"Who are you?" Julian frowned, squinted harder.
I kept my voice low, altered.
"Stay away from Anthea," I said it cold. "Remember how this feels. Some people aren't for you to touch."
"I don't understand, I didn't do anything... Who are you to Anthea?" Still playing dumb. Or maybe just stupid.
I crouched down, grabbed his collar, and let him see the killing intent in my eyes.
"Next time, you won't be this lucky."
Julian's face went white. He stared at me, finally understanding the cost of getting close to Anthea.
"I-I understand." His voice barely audible.
