That day on the couch still burns behind my eyes; her thighs locked around my hips, the broken little sounds she made when I finally pushed all the way in, the way her nails carved half-moons into my shoulders like she was claiming me right back.
I haven’t touched her since. Not once. I told myself it was strategy, control, that I needed to figure out how the hell I lost my grip so completely. How I let her fuck with me like that.
How I still taste her when I close my eyes at night.
She’s mine now. That should make this easier. It doesn’t.
Her scent drifts over.Marshmallows.My cock twitches like it has a personal vendetta. I shift, trying to focus on the map someone unrolled on the coffee table. Trying not to stare at the way the fishnets hug the curve of her calf, the soft line where netting meets smooth skin.
Dimitri’s eyes flick down.
Again.
He’s not even subtle about it this time—his gaze lingers on her legs, slow, appreciative, the corner of his mouth twitching like he’s remembering some private joke. My vision narrows to a pinprick.
I reach sideways, palm closing around the handle of Vaska’s knife from his fingers. The blade leaves my hand before I finish the thought.
It buries itself in Dimitri’s shoulder with a wet thunk.
He jerks back, chair scraping, hand flying to the hilt. Blood instantly darkens his shirt. The room goes dead quiet except for the hiss of his indrawn breath.
“Fucking Christ, Maks,” Dimitri snarls, teeth gritted.
Vaska exhales through his nose like a bull. “Stop taking my knife.”
I lean back, arm stretched along the sofa behind Ayla now, fingers brushing the nape of her neck.
“Hold on to it tighter then,” I murmur. Low. Almost bored.
Dimitri yanks the blade free with a curse, pressing his palm over the wound. Vaska snatches the knife back the second it’s out, wiping it on his jeans before sliding it into his boot.
Ayla hasn’t moved. Hasn’t flinched. But I feel the tiniest tremor run through her thigh where it presses against mine. Skin hot. She knows exactly why I did it.
I let my thumb trace a slow circle against the soft skin at the base of her skull, right under her hair. She tilts her head just enough to give me better access.
The room starts talking again; careful now, voices lower, eyes anywhere but her legs. The Turks are mentioned again. Plans. Timelines. Retaliation.
I still don’t give a fuck.
All I can think about is how her cunt felt clenching around me, the look on her face when she came, how I’ve been starving myself ever since just to prove I could.
I can’t.
Not anymore.
“You have that raid tonight and now you’re down Dimitri,” Vaska murmurs close. “Am I going or—”
Fuck.
I can’t leave Ayla in the townhouse alone. She said she wants to stay, but she might run.
The compound is safer.
“No I have to go. You’ll stay here.”
“Here?”
“Yes, with Beda.”
