Page 45 of The Pakhan’s Debt by Leona White

He smirks. “You beg me.” He grabs my wrist, pins it above my head, and rubs my clit with his own fingers, rough and merciless. I arch off the bed, panting. The second orgasm hits harder, tearing through me with a scream. “Yes!” My body spasms, clenching around him. He slams in, rutting through the aftershocks. His breath breaks into jagged snarls.

His rhythm falters. “Look at me,” he says.

I do. His eyes lock on mine, and he comes with a deep groan, body quaking. He keeps thrusting shallowly through the pulses, milking every drop, before finally stilling. His face is flushed, sweat dripping down his brow. He kisses me once, bruising and quick, then pulls out.

I’m limp, chest heaving, skin buzzing. He grips my jaw. “Mouth.”

I obey, opening. He slides his fingers in, coated with my slick, and I suck them clean, glaring up at him while I do it. He watches, satisfied. Then he grabs my shoulders and flips me onto my stomach again.

“Doggy,” he says. “Hands on the headboard.”

I crawl forward, palms braced on the carved wood, ass raised. He kneels behind me and clamps my hips, kneading the bruised flesh, then slams back inside. I moan, deep and hoarse. The angle shifts, his cock hitting deeper, dragging obscene sounds from my throat. He sets a punishing pace, hands sliding up my ribcage, thumbs scraping my spine. He drags one hand into my hair, twisting it into a makeshift leash, forcing my head back while he pounds into me.

“You feel this?” he growls.

“Everywhere,” I pant.

“Good.” He yanks my head up, teeth scraping my ear. “If you ever run, I’ll find you by the way your body remembers me.”

I snarl, even as my body clenches around him. He reaches around, rubbing my clit again. My knees shake. The overstimulation is a knife’s edge, pain and bliss tangled. I sob once, the sensation too much. He doesn’t relent. He fucks me through it, growling, muscles straining, sweat dripping down his chest onto my back. My third orgasm tears through me in jagged waves, a choked cry strangled in my throat. “Maksim!” I scream again, hating and needing the name.

He follows with a raw shout, “Elena,” hips slamming deep one last time as he comes. He collapses over me, chest pressed to my back, both of us shaking. He slides out, teeth nipping the back of my neck, then stands.

My arms buckle. I collapse forward onto the mattress, face pressed to the sheets, breathing ragged. Sweat slicks every inch of me. He collapses beside me, hauling me against his chest whether I fight or not. His heartbeat thunders against my ear.

I think I’ve finally got a grip on breathing when an alarm splits the air.

14

ELENA

The alarm cuts through the room, loud and ugly, and for a second I don’t move. My body is still where it was, heat lingering, skin flushed, his scent still on me, his hand only just gone from my waist.

Maksim is already off the bed.

“I’m coming,” he says into the phone, his voice back to hard, like the last minutes never happened. He drags his shirt on without bothering with the buttons and reaches for his gun.

Then he looks at me. “Stay here.”

The door shuts behind him before I can answer.

I sit there for half a second longer, then push the sheets off and swing my legs down. My dress is halfway up my thighs. I drag it down fast, fingers clumsy, then pull it straight over my hips and up over my chest, smoothing it like that will settle anything inside me.

It doesn’t.

Voices bleed in from the corridor. Fast steps. A shout from somewhere below. Metal striking something hard. For a second, my brain tries to file it as routine—a drill. Karpov is running a house drill.

But the timing is wrong. The tone is wrong. No one sounds ready. Something’s off. Then someone screams downstairs.

I get to my feet, then stop myself before I reach the door. He said stay. That means something in this house. It also means I don’t get to see what’s happening.

I hate that.

I move to the edge of the suite instead, listening, tracking what I can. Doors open. Close. A man swears. Another answers, clipped and controlled.

My hand drifts to the phone on the table.

I pick it up. Put it back. Who would I even call?