Page 42 of The Pakhan’s Stolen Bride

"It’s exactly where it belongs," he murmurs, his pace quickening, the wet, heavy slaps of our skin meeting echoing through the silent room.

He pulls out abruptly, the sudden loss making me let out a whimpering cry of protest. He doesn't let me recover as he grabs my waist and spins me around, forcing me onto my hands and knees on the smooth, polished surface of the desk.

Ilya stands behind me, his hand wrapping firmly around my throat from behind as he drives his hips forward.

He enters me from behind with a heavy, relentless thrust that knocks the remaining air from my lungs. He keeps his hand steady on my neck, his other hand coming down to grip my hip, his fingers digging into my flesh to guide the frantic, grinding rhythm. I look at our reflection in the dark, polished wood of the desk, seeing my back arched, my chest hanging low, and his massive form driving into me.

He bends down, his teeth grazing my shoulder blade, biting the skin just hard enough to leave another dark mark. I cry out, my hips bucking back against his, my internal muscles clamping down around his thickness so tightly he lets out a low, ragged groan.

"You're so tight, Via," he rasps, his hand on my neck tightening just a fraction as his thrusts become faster, shallower, and incredibly hard. "You're built for me."

The friction is building to a fever pitch, my body shaking with the onset of another climax. I’m close, so close the room is beginning to spin, but before I can shatter, he pulls out again.

I let out a loud, frustrated sob, turning my head to look at him over my shoulder. "Ilya, please. Don't stop. I need it."

He doesn't answer. He grabs my arms and pulls me back toward the edge of the desk, forcing me to sit upright. He steps between my thighs and lifts me, instructing me to wrap my legs tightly around his waist.

I do as he says and I am completely suspended, my weight supported entirely by his arms under my thighs and my legs locked around his hips. He lifts me up, pressing my back against the heavy mahogany bookshelf adjacent to the desk.

He drives himself back inside me.

The depth is absolute. With my legs wrapped around him, he is buried so deep I can feel the heavy thump of his pelvis against mine with every single upward thrust. I wrap my arms around his neck, my face buried in his shoulder as he moves with a desperate, crushing intensity. There is no gentleness here, no soft edges. It is a primal, violent claiming, his body lifting me with every drive, his breath hot and ragged against my ear.

"Look at me, Via," he commands, his voice a broken, gravelly thread.

I open my eyes, my vision blurry with tears, looking down into his dark, blown-out pupils. He’s staring at me with a terrifying, absolute possessiveness that makes my chest ache. He’s driving us both to the edge, his movements becoming frantic, his muscles corded and shaking under my hands.

"Tell me who owns you," he growls, his thrusts reaching a deafening, rapid pace.

"You," I sob, my fingers digging into the fresh bandages on his shoulder. "You do, Ilya. Only you."

Just then, my body snaps, the waves of my climax washing over me in a rush that makes my internal walls contract in tight, desperate pulses around his length.

With a loud, animalistic roar, Ilya drives himself deep inside me one last time, his body shaking as he releases his hot seed deep inside my womb.

He holds me there against the bookshelf, his chest heaving against mine, his ragged breaths hot against my collarbone as we both shiver in the aftermath.

We stay like that for what feels like hours, the only sounds the heavy, synchronized thud of our hearts and the steady rain hitting the window outside.

Slowly, the fog of pleasure clears, leaving behind a cold, terrifying reality.

He slowly lowers me back onto the edge of the desk, his hands lingering on my waist as he pulls back. I look at the blood smeared on his shoulder, the fresh bite mark on my neck, and the heavy, scarred hand resting on my hip.

I'm falling for him. The realization hits me with a force that makes my chest ache, a cold, heavy dread settling into my stomach. He’s a monster. He’s a killer. He’s the man who dragged me into this hell.

And I’m falling for him.

I look at his face, his dark eyes still watching me with a quiet, heavy intensity, and for the first time in my life, I realize that the bullets weren't the most dangerous thing in that museum.

He is.

16

ILYA

Fuck.

The scent of her skin, lavender and the musk of our sweat from the mahogany desk, is still trapped under the collar of my shirt.