"Fuck, yes—" He groaned deeply, the sound rumbling through hischest and into mine. His hand shot up to grip the back of my head, holding me firmly against the bite, pinning me there as he pounded up into me with renewed savagery. His hips snapped upward with punishing force, meeting every downward drop caused by the road. "Mark me. Fucking own me, baby. Harder."
Each jolt of the car amplified the friction. His cock dragged against every sensitive ridge inside me, stretching me wide, filling me completely on every thrust. Wet, obscene sounds filled the backseat—the slick slide of his thick shaft plunging into my soaked pussy, the slap of skin on skin, my muffled whimpers vibrating against his bleeding shoulder. I could feel every vein, every ridge, the way he throbbed and swelled even thicker inside me. My thighs burned from the strain, muscles quivering as I tried to match his pace, grinding my clit against his pelvis with each downward slam.
Sweat slicked our bodies where we joined. My dress was bunched uselessly around my waist, my breasts spilling free and rubbing against his shirt with every movement. He reached up with his free hand, palming one roughly, pinching the nipple until I cried out into his skin. Pain and pleasure blurred into one overwhelming sensation.
My core clenched tighter around him, pleasure coiling deep in my belly like a spring wound past its breaking point. Every nerve ending fired at once—my clit throbbing, my walls fluttering, the bite on his shoulder grounding me in the moment.
"Come," he commanded, his voice ragged and authoritative, lips brushing my ear. "Come on my cock, Vivienne. Milk me dry. Now."
It wasn't a request. It was an order from the depths of his soul, and my body obeyed without question. The orgasm detonated through me like an explosion, whiting out my vision, stealing my breath. My entire body seized, thighs locking around his hips as powerful waves crashed over me. Stars burst behind my eyelids. My toes curled, fingers clawing at his back, tearing at his shirt.
He followed seconds later with a guttural roar that echoed in the confined space. He slammed me down one final, bone-deep time, burying himself to the hilt as he spilled inside me. Thick, hot pulses of his release flooded my depths, filling me until I could feelit leaking out around where we were joined. His cock twitched and jerked with every spurt, prolonging my own aftershocks.
I don't know how long it was before the car slowed, the heavy scrape of the estate's iron gates opening reaching my ears.
Only our ragged, sticky breathing filled the car.
Nikolai buried his face in the crook of my neck, his burning forehead pressed against my sweat-slick collarbone, chest heaving. I was a puddle of melted wax, fingers weakly resting on his sweat-soaked back muscles. I couldn't move a single toe.
The car stopped smoothly. Sasha up front wisely didn't kill the engine, didn't open the door, didn't even breathe loud enough to hear.
Nikolai pushed himself up. The storm in those gray eyes had finally passed, leaving only a dark, sated calm. He lifted his hand, roughly but tenderly brushing the chestnut curls plastered to my face aside, then grabbed his suit jacket and wrapped me tightly in it.
"Home," he said, scooping me up and striding out of the car.
The night air was cool, dispersing some of the stickiness on my skin but not the crushing intimacy between us.
When we crossed into the villa, it was two in the morning.
My stomach let out a long, loud rumble in the silent hall—probably the fourth or fifth time today.
I buried my face in his chest, mortified enough to wish for instant unconsciousness. Nikolai just laughed low in his chest, the big hand holding me bouncing my weight slightly.
"Go sit at the kitchen island."
He set me down, then casually stripped off that dead tie, unbuttoned the top three buttons of his shirt, rolled up his sleeves, exposing forearms covered in veins and black ink in cold, hard lines.
I shuffled into that Michelin three-star-level kitchen wrapped in his oversized jacket, propping my chin on my hand and watching this man—this Pakhan who could decide life and death in Washington's underworld with one word—efficiently pull garlic, dried chilies, and a box of ordinary spaghetti from the fridge.
Fifteen minutes later, a steaming plate of pasta glistening with golden olive oil landed solidly in front of me.
"Holy shit." I twirled a huge forkful into my mouth, too hungry to care about the heat, staring up at him in shock. "Are you sure you weren't a chef in some Sicilian mob kitchen before? This is incredible."
Nikolai pulled out the stool across from me, holding a fresh glass of straight whiskey.
The dim yellow spotlight above the island hit his brow bone, casting deep shadows that softened the cruelty and sharpness people usually fled from.
"Maybe," he shrugged.
"Where the hell did you learn this?" I wound up another massive bite, shoving it in my mouth without caring about burning myself. "This is better than any Michelin chef. Seriously, this is the best pasta I've ever had."
Nikolai took a sip of whiskey, ice clinking softly in the glass.
"My mother taught me." His tone was flat.
My chewing stopped cold.
Mother.
