Wet lips replace his tongue at the base of my spine. Hovering over my crack. Testing, not taking. When his fingers slide through my folds from behind, I'm embarrassingly wet.
"See?" he murmurs, curling his fingers inside me and kissing the curve of my ass. My heart gallops when his thumb spreads my cream around my darkest entry. "Just relax," he says before he enters. I knew it was coming. Even in the darkest pit of my pillowcase I predicted it. But I still yelp and jerk my hips down.
“Shhh,” he says again, kissing my back while he waits for me to settle. “That’s it. I won’t hurt you.” His hands work me again. Gentle rotations in my soaking pussy as his thumb begins a gentle sawing in and out. “You’re so tight here.” The sawing spirals heighten the sensation. God, I’m so deep in my pillow I’m suffocating. He works me, bringing me closer and closer to the edge. One hand inside, his fingers doing a frenetic dance against spots I’m still learning about while his thumb maintains a gentle pulsing. Night and day. Fire and Ice. My body tenses; I’m pulled tighter, a string that yanks me out of my haven as my back arches, falling on his hand and my head rears. I come and come, shaking, shivering. Clutching at nothing as he withdraws.
He flips me over so fast I gasp. "Hands above your head," he growls as he strips, ripping his clothing off. He doesn't give me time to recover. He's on me, inside me in one smooth thrust that makes me see stars. I'm so sensitive it borders on pain, but hemoves with that same relentless rhythm from last night, finding the angle that makes my vision blur.
The second orgasm shatters me. He follows, his body going rigid, his breath hot against my throat as he spills inside me with a groan that is a hair's breadth from pain. We collapse together, his weight pressing me into the mattress.
After a minute, he rolls onto his back, pulling me with him so I'm tucked against his side. My hand rests on his chest; his heartbeat slows from its frantic pace. I trace patterns on his skin, learning the landscape of him.
When I run my hand down his arm, feeling the solid muscle, he tenses but doesn't stop me. I lace my fingers through his, then bring our joined hands up to my face, studying his in the dim light. These hands have gagged my cries, taken my pussy and held my orgasms. I marvel at them until I trace the raised lines across his wrists. Scars. Not neat ones. Deliberate. Permanent welts hidden beneath his tattoos. My thumb runs over them again, my breath catching. "What happened?"
He yanks his hand away so fast I flinch. Our warmth cracks and bitter cold fills the fractures. "Nyet."
"Rafail—"
"No." He sits up, swinging his legs off the bed, putting space between us. "You know who I am. And some things I don't share. Not when there's a time limit on us."
The words are a backhanded slap. Time limit. Our arrangement has always had one rule—it's temporary.
I should say something. I should protest that he knows everything about me while I know nothing about him. But I don't know what I want. I don't know if I want to know him, if I want to peel back those layers, if I want to understand the man who takes me apart with his hands and then reminds me I'm temporary.
The silence stretches between us until he stands and walks toward the bathroom door without looking back. "Get dressed. We have places to go."
Then he's gone, and I'm left in his bed with the ghost scars under my fingers and a one-sided agreement that resembles our original bargain less and less every day.
The shopping trip is a surreal surprise. Every time I think I understand him, he erases what I thought I knew. We're in downtown Boston, in the kind of boutique where they serve champagne while you browse and nothing has a price tag because if you have to ask you can't afford it. Rafail sits in a leather chair while I try on dresses, offering opinions with the casual confidence of a man who knows exactly what he likes. "That one," he says when I emerge in a deep emerald dress that hugs my curves and flatters my brown skin. "Definitely that one."
"It's too much." I look at myself in the three-way mirror, seeing a different woman from the woman who stood on that stage just days ago.Who will I be when this is done?
I ask, "Where would I even wear something like this?"
"Tonight. To dinner." He stands, moving behind me so we're both reflected in the mirror. His hands settle on my hips, possessive and warm. "You look stunning, milaya. You should always wear jewels and silk."
"Yes, that will be a good look for a business office," I counter, but my protest sounds weak even to my own ears. Because I do look good. Better than good. I look like I belong with a man like him…With him, only him.
"You were made for this dress." His reflection meets mine in the mirror. "Made to be spoiled by a man who can't stop looking at you." I look down, but not before he gives me an even rarer gem: a smile at my reflection. "You're beautiful," he says, and the smile fades into hunger.
A controlled intensity that means he's barely holding himself back. We're in a semi-public space, sales associates just beyond the curtain. This is completely inappropriate.
Which is probably why my pulse kicks up and my thighs quiver. That one tell is all he needs. He's on me in seconds, backing me against the mirror, his mouth claiming mine while his hands work my body with easy efficiency. He’s learned what makes me respond. I come apart on his fingers while biting my lip to stay quiet, and afterward he helps me back into the dress like nothing happened, zipping it up with the same care he used to take it off.
Two hours later I'm drowning in shopping bags and guilt about the amount of money he spent. But I also feel more like myself. The clothes were my choices—not what someone else picked for me, but what I actually wanted.
Back at the estate, I prepare for dinner while Rafail handles business calls in his office. Rina helps me with my hair, styling the curls into something elegant and sophisticated that makes me look older than twenty-three.
The emerald dress fits perfectly, hugging every curve without being obscene. I look expensive. Sophisticated. Like someone who belongs in upscale restaurants instead of fast-food places with free Wi-Fi between classes.
When I emerge from my room, Rafail is waiting in the hallway. He's in a dark suit, his hair styled back from his face, looking more sophisticated businessman than Bratva boss.
His eyes travel slowly down my body and back up. "Stunning. Absolutely stunning."
"You clean up pretty well yourself," I manage, almost more nervous than I was the first night.
He pulls a jewelry box from his pocket, opening it to reveal a necklace that makes my breath catch. It's a delicate gold chainwith a pendant—an emerald that matches my dress perfectly, surrounded by small diamonds that catch the light.
"This is too much," I protest as he fastens it around my neck. "I can't—"
