He doesn’t look up. “No.”
“Didn’t think so.”
His gaze flicks to me then—dark, burning. “They want fucking kids. In this.”
“I heard.”
“And you don’t see how insane it is?”
I shrug one shoulder. “It’s their funeral. Literally, maybe. But it was their wedding. You could’ve waited five minutes before dropping the liability bomb.”
His laugh is short, humorless. “They need to hear it.”
“Maybe. But you didn’t have to be the one to say it.”
He stares at me for a long beat. Then he leans back, thighs spreading slightly in the chair, the movement deliberate. “Come here.”
Maksim never asks for things he needs. He demands wants, but never needs.
Not really. Maksim Korsakov doesn’t beg, doesn’t plead, doesn’t even hint most of the time.
But I know him.
I push off the desk, heels clicking softly. When I reach him, I don’t wait for permission. I slide between his knees, hands resting light on his shoulders, feeling the muscle jump under my palms.
His eyes lift to mine—burning.
I don’t say anything at first. Just lean in and kiss him slow. Once on the corner of his mouth. Once on the sharp edge of his jaw. Then lower, my lips brushing the side of his throat where his pulse is hammering.
His hands settle on my hips. A low sound rumbles in his chest.
“Ayla—”
“Shh.” I press a finger to his lips, then replace it with my mouth. “You’ve been carrying a lot. Let me take some.”
He exhales through his nose, the sound rough. His fingers flex against my hips, but he doesn’t stop me.
I sink down slowly, knees finding the floor between his spread thighs. My hands go to his belt, unhurried. The buckle opens with a quiet snick. I tug his pants down just enough, dipping my hand into the waistband of his underwear and pulling him out, he’s already half-hard, the silver rungs of his piercings catching the desk lamp’s low glow.
I wrap my fingers around the base, stroking once, slow. He hisses through his teeth.
“Open,” he murmurs.
I lean in, lips parting. The first touch of my tongue against the head makes him twitch. Then I drag down with purpose, letting the flat of my tongue trace the underside. The bars roll against it—cool metal warming fast, each rung catching slightly, bumping, sliding. It’s textured in a way nothing else is. The first one nudges my bottom lip, then the next, a steady rhythm as I take him deeper. They drag and catch on the soft insides of my cheeks, the sensitive underside of my tongue, sending little sparks every time I move.
He groans low, hand sliding into my hair, not forcing, just holding. Guiding.
“Fuck.Just like that.”
I hollow my cheeks, sucking harder, letting my tongue play between the rungs—flicking, swirling around each bar. The metal rolls with every pass, a steady, addictive friction that makes my jaw ache in the best way. He’s leaking now, salty on my tongue, mixing with the faint metallic tang of the jewelry.
His hips lift slightly, pushing deeper. I relax my throat, take him to the back, feeling the ladder press and slide all the way down. The bars massage, relentless, textured pressure that has him cursing under his breath in Russian.
“Fuck!”
I pull back slow, letting my lips drag over every rung, tongue tracing the lines between them. His grip tightens in my hair.
“Look at me.”
