“That doesn’t mean I expected you to come.”
“No?” I shift slightly on the bed, just enough to make the lace pull, to make the movement impossible to ignore. “You sounded pretty sure of yourself.”
His jaw tightens. He sets the globe down—carefully, almost absently—on the table by the door, never breaking eye contact.
“I wasn’t sure of anything,” he says quietly. “Not after—”
“Then don’t talk about it. Not yet.”
The words come softer than I expect, but they land hard.
Another beat stretches between us. Charged. Fragile.
Dangerous.
“Still avoiding things?” he asks.
“Postponing,” I shoot back.
That does it.
Something in his expression snaps—not into anger, but into decision.
He crosses the room in three strides.
***
FABIO
The moment the door clicks behind me, for a split second, I think I’m dreaming. Zlata sprawled across my bed—black lace hugging every curve, red lips parted, watching me in the mirror like she’s already picturing how I’ll wreck her.
Fuck the trophy. Today, she’s my prize.
My chest heaves, the adrenaline from the race and the ceremonies replaced by a sharper, hungrier edge. I watch her shift, every little move calculated and devastating. For weeks I’ve been gnashing my teeth, burning with everything unsaid, and now she’s here—silent, offering, daring me.
And this whole thing is so unlike her that I forget to breathe. She watches me with the eyes of a cat that knows I’ll come to her. It pisses me off a little, after those weeks of silence, but it also sends certain signals straight to my dick.
I set the globe down and stride across the room. I close my hand around her wrist—possessive, in charge. She melts back into the mattress with that sly, dangerous smile, like she wants me to take everything she’s got.
“Is this what you came for?” The words scrape out of me, rough.
She arches, a challenge. “What do you think?”
I tighten my grip, pinning her, drinking in the way her eyes widen, her breath stutters. “I think you came here because you need someone to remind you who the fuck you belong to.”
She shivers, mouth twitching. “Then do it.”
That’s it. My restraint snaps. I force her arms overhead, trapping her wrists in one hand, my mouth crashing down on hers—brutal, claiming, tongue pushing until she gasps. I drink her in, devour her, pressing my body down so she feels every line of me, every intention.
“Keep your hands there,” I growl, releasing her wrists. “If you move them, I’ll tie you up and edge you until you beg.”
She nods, eyes huge, pupils blown with heat.
I peel the bra off with slow, punishing care, letting the straps drag over her skin. Her nipples are already tight, flushed, begging for my mouth; I take one between my lips, suck hard enough to leave a mark, then bite gently. She arches, whimpers, but keeps her hands exactly where I left them.
“My Golden Girl,” I murmur against her skin. “I’ve dreamt of seeing you like this. And here you are.”
She moans, legs shifting, thighs pressing together. I wedge a knee between them, forcing her softly open, running my fingers over the lace at her hips.
