But I can’t cross that line. Something tells me if I do, this will spiral out of control. But I can’t walk away, either.
I can picture her in there, on that bed. Her hand between her legs. Her head thrown back. Her lips parted on those small moans I can hear through the door. I free my cock and wrap my hand around it. It's already hard, already leaking. I’m already desperate for release again even though I came just a short while ago, and I can't stop.
I stroke myself slowly, matching the rhythm to the sounds she's making. When her breathing speeds up, my hand moves faster. When she moans, I have to bite my lip to keep from groaning in response. She’d hear me if I did. Someone would hear me.
Someone might catch me, and the thought only makes me harder. When the fuck did I become this reckless? I’ve never been an exhibitionist or a voyeur. I like rough sex, a little bondage, but nothing out of the ordinary. Have I been under so much pressure for so long that I’ve finally snapped?
What the fuck has this little bird done to me?
I imagine what she looks like right now. Is she still dressed or did she strip down? Is she under the covers or on top of them? How wet is she? God, she must be wet. I can hear it in the sounds she's making—that desperate, needy sound that comes from being aroused and empty and wanting to be filled.
My hand moves faster on my cock. I'm leaking steadily now, using it to ease the friction, imagining it's her hand instead of mine. Her mouth. Her pussy. I hear her gasp, louder this time, less controlled, and I know she's getting close.
The knowledge that she's about to come, that I'm going to hear her fall apart, makes my own orgasm teeter on the brink of explosion. I press my forehead against the door and stroke faster. Harder. My breathing is harsh in the quiet hallway but I can't control it. I feel like I can't control anything when I can hear her like this. The barest shred of it is keeping me from going in and pinning her to that bed, shoving my hard cock into her soaked pussy and giving her the cum I’m about to spurt everywhere.
She moans again. It's muffled—probably into her pillow—but I hear it clearly enough. I can hear the desperation in it. The need. Is she thinking about the way my hand felt on her throat? Or is she imagining more? Imagining what would have happened if I'd kept going? If I'd stripped her bare and touched her everywhere, if I'd made her come on my fingers before sliding inside her? The thought of being inside her—of feeling her tight and hot and wet around my cock—makes me grip myself harder.
I'm close. So fucking close. But I'm waiting to hear her come. I need it… I need her orgasm. I need to imagine she’s clenching around my cock when I spurt.
I hear footsteps on the stairs below. The guards are coming up.Fuck. I should stop, finish in my room, but I can’t. I need to hear her come. I need it like I need to fucking breathe.
Her breathing gets faster, more erratic. I can hear the bed creaking slightly as her hips move. Can hear the small, desperate sounds she's making as she chases her release. Then she gasps, sharp and sudden, and I hear it… the sound of her coming.
It's muffled but unmistakable. A moan that starts low and builds, her breathing stuttering, the bed creaking as her body tenses and releases. The sound of her pleasure destroys me.
My orgasm hits like a freight train. I barely manage to catch myself against the wall with my free hand, my other hand still working my cock as I come hard, my jaw clenched tight to keep from making noise. I shove my erection down into my boxer briefs, twisting the fabric around the head as I spurt to avoid making a mess on the floor and the door in front of me. My hips jerk as if I’m fucking my cum into her, my other hand clenched in a fist.
It goes on forever, longer than before, more intense than before. I can still hear her on the other side of that door, her breathing as she comes down from her orgasm, and the knowledge that we just did this, separately but together, is almost too much.
My heart is pounding and my breathing is harsh, my hand covered in my own release. The footsteps are louder now. She's quiet on the other side of the door. Probably lying there in the dark, her body still trembling, her mind probably as fucked up as mine.
The security will be up here in a minute. I need to get the fuck out of here. I pivot, yanking my pants closed with my half-hard cock still twisted up in my soaked boxer briefs as I head quickly down the hall before anyone sees me, entirely too aware of what’s happening here.
That I, Andrei Petrov,pakhanof the Petrov Bratva, am running from my own men so that they don’t figure out that I just jerked off in the open while listening to my captive moan. So I don’t get caught.
This is fucking insanity.
I make it back to my room and lock the door behind me. Then I stand there in the dark, and try to figure out what the fuck I'm going to do about Liesl Baumann.
6
ANDREI
There’s blood under my fingernails when I go back to the estate, late in the evening the next day.
It’s dried around the creases, staining the skin. I tried to wash it off in the warehouse bathroom but the lighting was shit and I was in a hurry. Now it's there, a reminder of what I did tonight. My knuckles are bruised too, split across two of them where I hit bone instead of soft tissue. The man I was interrogating had a hard skull. Took longer than it should have to get the information I needed.
But I got it. And now I'm driving back to the estate with that information burning in my chest like acid, my hands still marked with evidence of how I extracted it, and my mind already three steps ahead trying to figure out how to handle what comes next.
The gates open as we approach, and security waves us through. The car pulls up to the main entrance and I'm out before it fully stops.
I need to think. Need to process.
I need to figure out what the fuck I’m going to do.
The compound is quiet at this hour. Most of my men are either on patrol or asleep. The hallways are empty except for the guards stationed at key points, all of whom nod as I pass.
I head for my office but stop halfway there. I need a drink first. Something stronger than water. Something that might take the edge off the rage that's been building since I heard what Alexander Baumann has been doing behind my back.
