"Please what?" he taunts, his smirk wicked. "Beg for it,kiska. Beg for me to fuck you."
"Please," I plead, tears of desperation prickling at the corners of my eyes. "Please, take me."
"Ready,Moya?" he growls, his voice husky with need. "You're about to learn what it means to belong to me."
I nod frantically, unable to form words. He thrusts into me in one brutal motion, sheathing himself completely inside me. I scream at the sheer size of him, the pain and pleasure mingling into something indescribable.
"Fuck," he groans, his head thrown back. "You're so tight,Moya. Like a vice."
He starts to move, each thrust harder and deeper than the last. The sound of our bodies slapping together fills the air, mingling with the crash of the waves. He kisses me deeply, stealing my breath as he fucks me with unrelenting intensity.
"You take me so well," he praises between thrusts. "Such a perfect little wife for me."
His words send a thrill through me, my body responding eagerly to his dominance. He shifts his angle slightly and suddenly, lightning arcs through my body as he hits a spot inside me that makes me see stars.
"There it is," he grunts, pounding into that spot relentlessly. "Scream for me,kiska. Let everyone know who you belong to."
I can't hold back the cries that tear from my throat, each one louder than the last as he drives me closer and closer to the edge. His hands roam my body possessively, claiming every inch as his own.
"Come with me," he growls, his rhythm faltering as his own release approaches. "Now."
We fall over the edge together, our cries mingling as pleasure consumes us both. He spills inside me with a roar, his arms tightening around me as if he'll never let go. We stay like that for a moment, both of us trembling from the intensity of our shared climax.
15
LILY
The sunlight hitsthe room before I’m ready for it. Pale and gold, spilling across the tangled sheets, across the bruises blooming on my hips like proof.
Every inch of my body aches—but in that good, heavy way that makes me want to smile against the soreness. My thighs are tender. My lips still feel bruised. Even my ribs ache a little from how hard I laughed when he carried me off the path last night. It’s the kind of ache that makes me want to stay here forever, inside this stretch of time where everything feels easy and slow and full of him.
Every part of me feels used and worshipped, marked by him in ways that make my heart stumble when I move. My body is sore, deliciously so, the kind of ache that feels like memory.
I slide out of bed, wincing when my toes hit the cool tile. The villa is quiet except for the distant sound of waves and the low hum of the morning wind through the palms. My legs wobble in protest,so I make my way to the bathroom, turn on the tap, and watch as the tub fills with warm water. Steam rises in soft ribbons. The surface catches the sunlight and turns it to liquid rose gold as I pour in some rose oil and epsom salt into the water.
When I sink in, the heat wraps around me like a sigh. The heat bites at first, then spreads, slow and consuming. My muscles loosen. My breath evens. I slide lower until the water kisses my chin and the world goes quiet.
For the first time in years, there’s no noise in my head. No alarms. No lists. No fear of what comes next. Just this — warmth, silence, and the ghost of his hands still mapped over my skin.
I rest my head against the porcelain edge, closing my eyes, letting the scent of rose oil and saltwater blur together.
Somewhere beyond the open balcony, waves crash against the rocks. The sound melts into the rhythm of my heartbeat. I think of last night — the way he said my name like it was something holy, the rough scrape of his jaw against my throat. I open my eyes and take a peak at my body, as I trail my fingers through the water, watching it ripple over my knees, over the faint bruises blooming on my thighs. They’re proof. Proof that he’s real. That last night happened. That Aleksandr Petrov—the man who’s always been untouchable, untamable—touched me like I was the only thing that could quiet him.
And when he held me,fuck,it was like he wasn’t sure I was real. Like he was afraid I’d vanish if he blinked. I’m not completely sure he’s real either. A part of me feels like I am going to wake back up in my shitty New York apartment and this would havebeen some really good and fucked up trick my mind played on itself.
The sound of the villa door closing breaks the quiet. Heavy footsteps echo through the hall, steady, familiar. He’s back. I can hear the faint shuffle of him kicking off his shoes, the low creak of the floorboards under his weight as he moves through the room, probably wiping sweat from his brow, probably scanning the space for me.
A few seconds later, he finds me.
“Well aren’t I lucky?” Aleksandr hums, his knowing smirk making him even sexier.
When I look up, Aleksandr stands framed in the morning light, leaning against the bathroom door frame. Sweat-damp from a run, shirt clinging to his chest, breath still sharp from the cold. His hair’s a mess, sticking to his forehead, and somehow he looks even more dangerous like this: unguarded, human.
“Mmmhmm,” I hum, pulling my knees to my chest. “Don’t get any ideas.”
“Well,” he says, pushing off of the door frame and walking over to me. “I always get ideas looking at you.”
“I bet,” I murmur, a slick smile on my face. “When I woke up you were gone.”
