His thumb leaves my arsehole, his fingers gripping my hip hard. “You are, Beda, and you’re about to come, because you like this shit don’t you?”
A moan escapes my lips when he thrusts in hard.
“You like when I tell you how fucking good this cunt squeezes my cock. Come for me, Beda.”
I try to hold back, to spite him. But his thrusts and the way his fingers circle my clit, I can’t.
I shatter around him; hard, violent, clenching so tight he swears in Russian, the ladder amplifying every pulse.
“Maksim!” I gasp his name into the leather.
He follows with a guttural curse, burying deep and spilling hot inside me, hips jerking as he rides it out.
He doesn’t pull out right away. Stays buried, chest pressed to my back, arm banding around my waist. His breath is harsh against my neck, frustration simmering under the afterglow.
His mouth brushes the side of my neck—barely there.
“You wanted my attention?” he murmurs.
His hand tightens on my hip.
“Now you have it.”
Chapter 27
Maksim
Pietro’s headlights stay in my rearview longer than they need to.
I should’ve told him to hang back farther. Ayla’s not stupid; she clocks shadows. But I need eyes on the townhouse, and I’m not ready to tell her she’s on a leash yet.
Not when I just fucked her over a bike like I was trying to screw the questions out of both of us.
I tighten my grip on the wheel.
She’ll scowl. Pace. Check the windows. Maybe decide she’s brave enough to step outside.
If she does, Pietro will call.
If anyone else so much as slows in front of that house, Pietro will put a bullet through their windshield.
The compound gates open without a pause, guards waving me through. The estate looms ahead, all old stone and newer money, lit up like it expects a king to actually live here instead of just haunt it between wars.
I pull up hard, kill the engine, and climb out.
My mood doesn’t improve when I step inside and hear them before I see them—my siblings, voices bleeding through the hall, too at home in a house that isn’t theirs.
I cut through the foyer and find them in the main sitting room like they own the place.
Kostya’s sprawled in an armchair, long legs kicked out, boots on my coffee table. Katya is perched on the arm of the opposite sofa, phone in hand, nails painted some dark shade that matches her patience level.
Low.
“Why are you two always in my house?” I snap, not bothering with hello.
Kostya’s mouth curls, lazy. Katya doesn’t even glance up at first.
“You’re never here,” she says, finally looking over her screen. “If it weren’t for me keeping up with the maintenance on this place, it would’ve collapsed by now.”
