Page 41 of The Pakhan’s Stolen Bride

He pulls his hand back, leaving me shivering, empty, and burning with a desire that feels like its own kind of torture. He stands up, the water falling off his wet trousers as he steps out of the tub. He strips off his ruined, blood-soaked shirt, throwing it onto the floor, and wraps a clean towel around his waist.

I climb out after him, my legs still shaky, and wrap myself in a plush white robe.

We walk into the bedroom, where Yara has left the medical kit on the vanity. Ilya sits on the edge of the bed, his massive, muscled chest completely bare. His body is lined with thick white scars from knife cuts and bullet holes.

The fresh bullet graze on his shoulder is an angry, red trench of raw flesh, still leaking a slow trail of crimson down his arm.

I look at the blood, then at the scars, and a strange, dizzying trance settles over my brain. The hatred, the contracts, the kidnapping, it all blurs away. Right now, there is only the physical fact of him, and the fact that he bled to keep me breathing.

I open the medical kit, my fingers steady as I pull out the antiseptic and a roll of clean gauze. I step between his knees, my robe parting slightly to reveal the smooth skin of my thighs.

"This is going to sting." I keep my eyes on the antiseptic bottle, trying to steady my voice.

"I've felt worse." He stares directly at me, his eyes locked on mine.

I press the alcohol-soaked cotton to the raw wound on his shoulder. He doesn't flinch. His jaw clenches, a single cord of muscle in his neck tightening, but his eyes never leave my face. The sheer, suffocating intensity of his gaze makes my breath catch, my hand trembling slightly as I wipe the blood away, revealing the tear in his skin.

I pull his arm closer, my fingers tracing the deep cut on his forearm where the knife had sliced him.

"You're a brute." My thumb drags over a thick white scar on his ribs. "You have too many of these."

"They're reminders." His hand comes up to grip my waist, his fingers digging into the plush fabric of the robe. "Reminders of what happens when you let your guard down."

He pulls me closer, forcing my hips to press against his knee. The heat of his skin is like a pull, and I can see the sudden, dark blowout of his pupils as he looks at my mouth.

"Did you mean it?" His fingers tangle in my wet hair, pulling my head back slightly. "The kiss at the gala. Was it just for your father?"

I stare at him, my heart hammering against my ribs. I want to lie. I want to tell him it was a game, a performance to save a life. But as I look into his obsidian eyes, the lie dies in my throat.

"I wanted to keep him alive." I lean down, my face inches from his. "But I didn't have to pretend to want you."

A dark, primitive satisfaction flares in his eyes.

He stands up, his massive frame instantly towering over me. Before I can draw a breath, he hooks his hands under my thighs and hoists me onto the desk behind us. The medical kit clatters to the floor, rolls of gauze and antiseptic bottles scattering across the rug, but neither of us cares.

He rips the front of my white robe open, the silk ties snapping easily. He pins my wrists to the desk on either side of my head, his body a heavy, crushing weight that slides between my legs.

"I'm going to mark you, Via." His mouth drops to the sensitive skin of my collarbone. "I want every man in this city to see your skin and know exactly who you belong to."

He bites down, his teeth grazing the flesh near my neck just hard enough to draw a single drop of blood. I arch off the desk with a loud, breathless cry, my fingers clawing at the wood behind me as a hot, electric wave of pleasure washes over me.

He releases my wrists, but I don't run. I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him closer, my body screaming for the fullness of him.

He slides his hand down my body, his fingers finding my wetness and driving them deep inside me. He moves with a dominant, relentless pace, his thumb rubbing against my clit until my head is thrashing against the desk, my cries echoing in the quiet room.

He pulls back, his eyes dark as he looks down at me. "You're mine, Via." He leans down, his mouth replacing his fingers as he takes my swollen nub into his lips.

The pleasure is too much. I scream, my fingers tangling in his dark hair, my hips bucking against his mouth as he drives me over the edge. The waves of my climax hit me in a violent, shaking rush, my internal muscles contracting in tight, desperate pulses.

Before the release can even fade, he unbuckles his belt. He slides his trousers and briefs down, his hard, thick length springing free and pressing against my wet, aching entrance.

Instead of entering me right away, he grips my hips and pulls me to the very edge of the desk. He lifts my legs, draping my knees over his broad shoulders.

I gasp at the sudden exposure, the cool air of the bedroom hitting my wet skin before he moves back in.

He enters me slowly in this first position, the angle deep and excruciatingly full. The stretch is immense, forcing a high, breathless cry from my throat as his head sinks all the way to my core. He holds my hips, his thrusts slow, heavy, and deliberate, aligning perfectly with the tilt of my pelvis. Every time he drives forward, his chest rubs against my bare breasts, his hot, rough skin frictioning against mine until I'm clawing at the dark wood of the desk beneath me.

"Ilya... it’s too deep," I pant, my head shaking against the mahogany.