"Fuck, yes, just like that," he rasped, his rhythm turning erratic, hips snapping with desperate force. "Milk my cock, firecracker. Take every fucking drop."
With a guttural shout, he slammed into the hilt one last time, holding me impaled as he came hard. Thick, hot pulses of his cum flooded my spasming pussy, filling me until I could feel it leaking out around his shaft with every twitch. He kept grinding deep, as if trying to push every last bit inside me, marking me from the inside out. His body shuddered against mine, muscles flexing under my hands, sweat pouring off both of us.
We stayed locked together like that for long moments, panting, trembling. The locker room fell quieter, but the sticky sounds of our combined release still echoed softly as he shifted. His cock, still half-hard inside me, twitched with the aftershocks. I could feel his cum dripping down my thighs, mixing with my own wetness on the dirty floor.
He finally lifted his head, pressing a surprisingly tender kiss on my neck before capturing my mouth in a deep, claiming kiss. His tongue tangled with mine, slow and possessive now that the frenzy had peaked. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against mine, both of us breathing the same heated air.
"Mine," he whispered roughly, thumb brushing away the tears on my cheek.
The air in the cramped locker room finally settled, but the sticky heat—sweat and raw hormones—felt branded into my bones.
We straightened ourselves up hastily and walked out of that blood-soaked underground fight club. My legs were still jelly.
I assumed we'd head back to the estate. After all, he'd just cracked two of someone's ribs in an octagon and still had blood smeared at the cornerof his mouth.
But the car glided smoothly along the Potomac and stopped in front of an exclusive French restaurant I'd never been to.
The entire top-floor VIP room was ours alone. Candlelight flickered in expensive crystal glasses, deep burgundy wine breathing richly, and outside the floor-to-ceiling windows the Potomac reflected the glittering night of Washington.
The contrast was insane.
I watched the man across from me slice into a rare filet—he'd changed into a fresh black dress shirt, sleeves rolled up, but faint tape marks still lined his knuckles.
"You're sitting here with a busted lip, drinking a bottle of wine that costs more than five years of my rent." I finally broke the silence, stabbing at the truffle on my plate and raising an eyebrow. "You know how insane you look right now, boss man?"
Nikolai paused, knife and fork hovering. He glanced up, storm-gray eyes locking onto me through the wavering candlelight, bloodied mouth curving into a lazy smirk. "I can think of crazier things. Like a romance novelist who watches a man get his jaw shattered and instead of screaming and calling the cops, gets so turned on she comes twice against a metal locker, head full of her next chapter."
My face went up in flames. I nearly choked on my wine.
"That was—that was a creative response to extreme stimuli!" I shot back, ears burning. "And you're the one who pinned me to that locker!"
"True. My fault." He chuckled low, chest rumbling, eyes raking shamelessly over my collarbone. "Next time I'll fuck you until that smart mouth can't argue back."
I bit my lip and decided not to engage further on this dangerous topic. I set down my glass and leaned forward slightly, meeting those dark gray eyes.
"Seriously, Nikolai. Why?" I dropped the teasing tone, voice soft. "You're already the king of Washington's underworld. People shake at the sound of your name. You sit at the top of the pyramid. Why the hell do you still go into that filthy cage and fight like you've got nothing to lose?"
The room went quiet. Only the mournful cello drifted through the air.
Nikolai didn't answer right away. He turned toward the window, toward the Potomac, and the predatory edge in his gaze softened into something deeper—something weathered by blizzards and time.
"In the brutal Moscow winters, power and titles don't buy you bread, Vivienne." He turned back, voice steady. "The race for Pakhan started when I was still a kid. And it was uglier than you can imagine. When I was twelve, I got my ribs broken with a rusty pipe over control of a gambling den. I lay in the snow for an entire day and night."
My heart clenched. I stopped breathing.
"That day I learned the only thing this world respects—especially the Bratva—is raw violence." He lowered his gaze, absently turning the stem of his glass. "Now I wear custom suits and ride in bulletproof cars. But I have to keep reminding myself that my bones are made of street blood. The rust in the cage, the sound of fists breaking bone, pain, blood—that's the only thing that makes me feel like I'm still a living wolf and not some corpse puppet-stringed by family interests and fake rules."
He looked up, eyes burning into mine. "That's the only way I feel real."
I stared at him, frozen. In that moment, all those terrifying titles shattered.
I didn't see the ruthless Pakhan. I saw a lone soul who had to grow fangs just to survive the frozen wasteland.
"What about you, firecracker?" Nikolai reached across the table naturally, thumb brushing over the back of my hand. "You're obsessed with your keyboard. You'd rather fetch coffee and take scraps of pay at some publishing house that only cares about clicks and cash than give up writing. Why?"
I looked down at his large, rough hand wrapped around mine. A wave of confession rose up, fueled by wine and warmth.
"Because I want to prove I'm not disposable." I smiled bitterly, voice rough. "Derek used to mock me. Said my typing wasa waste of time. Said my stories about gangsters and love were worthless. My editor treated me like a free janitor and typist. They all thought my words would never matter."
