Mine.
The thought hits before I can stop it.
She’s mine.
I snap.
My thrusts lose precision. I grab her hips and slam in once and then I’m gone. Everything inside me uncoils in a brutal surge of heat and teeth and helpless fucking need.
I come with a sound I’ve never made before—low, guttural, dragged from somewhere deep in my chest.
Fuck pleasure.
Fuck release.
This isn’t that.It’s salvation.
In her. In this.
In the way her body fucking owns me when it breaks.
And that’s a problem. That’s a fucking problem. I’m the Pakhan of the Bratva. I don’t seek salvation in anyone. I don’t feel.
I command.
And yet, here I am; hovering inside her, cock still twitching, forehead pressed to hers like I need it. Marshmallow, sex and sweat clings to my skin like evidence I can’t scrub off.
Like I want it to stay.
No.
No.
I force myself to pull out even though every instinct screams to stay buried inside her. To keep the connection. To let it mean something.
I don’t.
I can’t.
If I let myself stay, I’ll fucking fall. And I don’t fall. Not for anyone.
I tuck myself away with harsh, clipped movements, already reaching for my shirt like I didn’t just lose every inch of control I have.
“Let’s go,” I snap, stepping back. “I hate this house. We’ve got things to do.”
She sits up slow, confusion ghosting across her face—soft, subtle. Like she saw something in me I didn’t mean to show. And she’s right. She did.
She fucking did.
But she won’t see it again.
“Bathroom?” she asks, too casual.
I nod. “Down the hall.”
She moves. Smooth. Efficient. Gathering her clothes like nothing happened. And I just stand there, jaw locked, staring at the wall.
Not at her.
