100 Days to Claim Me (Mark by Malikov #2)

Chapter 1

Mary

Ilean in.

Reach for the danger.For him.

I know he’s right.

He’s mafia, a stranger, my captor, holding me in his penthouse like a bird in a cage, his world of blood and secrets so far from mine.

Yet he’s saved me again and again, from Evan’s hands, from danger I didn’t see coming.

My mind screams to run, to fight this, because he’s not safe, not good, not mine.

But my body’s not listening. Not when he’s standing between my legs, all hard muscle and inked skin, looking so hot it’s unfair, his eyes burning into me like I’m the only thing that matters.

My pussy clenches.

I’m not broken.

“I know,” I whisper, breathless, my hands still under his shirt, nails scraping his skin. “But I do.”

His eyes turn wild and feral, like a predator that’s already decided I’m his next meal. There’s no hiding from it, no chance of slipping away.

“Too late to back out now, printsessa,” he hisses as he tugs my jeans down, rough but careful, fingers hooking into the waistband and peeling them off my hips.

I lift up without thinking, helping him, the denim dragging slowly against my thighs, exposing me inch by inch.

The cool marble chills my bare skin as the jeans slide past my knees, and he yanks them off completely, tossing them aside with a soft thud.

My panties are next. His fingers slip under the edges, pulling them down in one swift motion, the fabric sticking slightly where I’m already slick and ready in a way I’ve never been.

The air hits me. I shiver, exposed, vulnerable, but his eyes rake over me, fire in his gaze, and I feel it—wanted, needed, like I’m his entire world.

“You’re so wet, printsessa.” His voice is pure control, a king claiming his throne, and shame floods me. I’m too desperate, my arousal coating the counter like I’m some wanton thing.

My thighs snap shut instinctively, trying to hide the mess I’m making.

“Umm…” I mutter, voice small, barely a whisper, because how can I be this turned on for a man like him—mafia, captor, killer?

“Spread your legs,” he orders, hands gripping my thighs, forcing them apart.

“Anton…” I make a choking sound. His body crowds me, muscle pinning me open.

“Printsessa, you’re perfect,” he says, staring at me, fingers digging into my skin. “So fucking hot, so wet for me.” His words burn through my shame, making my pussy pulse.

My legs open wider for him, trembling hard, my arousal soaking the counter under my ass.

He steps closer, his body a wall of heat between my legs, and his hand slides up my thigh, fingers tracing the inside, slow, teasing.

My breath catches, and I grip the edge of the counter, knuckles white, because every touch is electric, waking parts of me I thought were dead.

“Your pussy’s perfect,” he growls, his eyes dark, the words half-muttered as his thumb brushes my clit first, light, testing, and I jolt, a gasp ripping from my throat.

Then he circles it, firmer, knowing exactly the pressure, the rhythm, like he’s mapped me out already.

Heat builds fast, a coil tightening low, and I’m panting, my hips rocking against his hand without shame.

“Anton—” His name’s a moan, and he answers by slipping a finger inside me, curling it just right, finding that spot that makes me lose all reason.

“God…” I arch, my head falling back against the mirror, and he adds another finger, thrusting slow at first, then faster, his thumb still working my clit in perfect sync. It’s overwhelming, the way he knows—every stroke, every press, like he’s tuned to me.

“Good girl. Your pussy’s so tight,” he murmurs.

His thick fingers plunge deeper, coated in my slickness, the obscene squelch of my arousal filling the air—a filthy, rhythmic sound that makes my cheeks burn and my core tighten.

It’s loud, unapologetic, each thrust of his fingers pulling a lewd, sucking noise from my soaked folds, like my body’s begging for him.

“Come for me now, printsessa,” he rasps, his eyes locked on mine, fierce and unyielding. “You’re mine to break.”

My thighs tremble, clenching hard around his waist where he’s wedged himself between my legs, his body forcing them wide, keeping me open for him, and I’m gone, my tits bouncing in my bra, heavy, full, my pussy dripping.

Fuck, am I this chick? Desperate, greedy, alive under his hands?

My head’s a mess, but my body’s all in, chasing the edge. The knot tightens, relentless, until I come undone, my pussy squeezing his fingers, pleasure hitting like a fist, my voice cracking into a raw “Fuuuuck!”

God. It’s my first real one—ever—and tears prick my eyes because I’m not broken.

Not with him.

“Ummm…” I moan; another hot surge hits, my pussy clenching hard, because Anton keeps going, his fingers thrusting deep, relentless, like he’s hell-bent on wrecking me again. My tits heave in my bra, spilling over, bouncing with every shudder as I grip the counter.

I’m trembling, my eyes begging him.

Fuck, it’s intense; this greedy heat flooding my pussy, throbbing like it’s begging for more. My brain’s screaming, “MORE. I WANT MORE.”

His breath hitches, and then with his free hand, he pushes my blouse up, tugging my bra down, exposing my full tits to the cool air.

He leans in and his mouth finds my nipple, tongue flicking hot and wet, before he sucks—hard enough to sting, soft enough to make me cry out.

The dual sensation—his fingers inside me, his mouth on my breast—has me writhing, hips bucking against his hand.

I tangle my hands in his hair, pulling him closer, needing more.

His mouth moves to my neck, teeth grazing my sensitive skin, and I shudder, my body arching into him, every nerve alive.

Panting, he pulls back just enough, eyes meeting mine, his fingers still inside me, thrusting deep.

“I could be gentle,” he murmurs, voice dark, laced with that edge that makes my core clench tighter around him. “But you like the monster, don’t you?”

The words send a thrill through me, dark and delicious, because fuck yes, I do.

I like the edge, the danger, the way he makes me feel alive and wanted, not like a chore, but like something he craves.

Yes. I’m willing, pressing into him, my body saying yes even as tears burn my eyes from how intense it is.

“Answer me, Mary,” he growls, slowing his fingers.

I nod, breathless, my hips grinding against his hand, chasing that high again.

“Yes,” I whisper, and it’s the truth, my thighs quivering as he curls his fingers harder, hitting that spot over and over. “Anton… please…” I press my lips together. “I’m gonna come again.”

The build is faster now, a fire raging, and I come again, my body spasming tight around him, waves rolling through me until I’m shaking, breathless, my vision spotting.

He pulls his fingers out slowly, and I whimper at the loss, but he’s already dropping to his knees, hands spreading my thighs wider.

His breath is hot against me, and then his mouth is there, lips closing over my clit, tongue flicking in a rhythm that makes my hips buck.

“Fuck, fuck… fuck!” I cry.

He’s relentless, licking deep, tasting every inch, his fingers sliding back in to join his tongue, thrusting while he sucks. I pull him closer, and the vibration of his groan against me sends me spiraling.

“Keep begging, printsessa,” he murmurs against my skin, his voice low and dirty, the words vibrating through me.

“Please,” I beg.

“The more you break, the harder I get.” It’s not cruel—it’s hot, encouraging, like he wants me to fall apart for him, and I do, my body responding with a fresh gush of heat as his tongue circles my clit faster, his fingers pumping deep.

I’m gasping, “Ahhhh,” the sound drawing out long and high, my hips grinding against his face.

He shifts, his free hand finding my nipple again, pinching and rolling it while his mouth works me, tongue lapping flat and wide, then pointing to flick my clit.

The combination is too much—his fingers finding that spot, his mouth sucking hard—and something builds differently this time, pressure deep and urgent, like I’m full, ready to burst. I panic for a second, thinking it’s pee, because nothing like this has ever happened, not in six years of faking it, not ever.

“Anton, wait—I think—”

But he doesn’t stop, his eyes lifting to mine, dark and commanding.

“Tremble for me, printsessa,” he says, voice muffled against me, but the words hit like a command, his tongue pressing flat against my clit, rubbing in circles while his fingers thrust faster, harder. “I’m going to make you cum so hard.”

The dirty promise in his tone, the way he says it like I belong here, with him, makes my body clench, and then it happens—a rush, wet and explosive, squirting out as I come harder than before, my whole body convulsing.

“Fuuuuccckkkk,” the word tears from my throat in a long, broken cry.

It’s not pee. It’s me, gushing, soaking his hand, his chin, and he groans like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted, lapping it up, drawing it out until I’m sobbing, shaking, my legs weak around him.

I slump back against the mirror, chest heaving, tears streaming because I’ve never felt this—never come like that, never squirted, never known my body could do this.

He rises, lips wet and shining, his hand cupping my face, thumb brushing my tears.

“You want more?” he asks, his fingers tightening on my chin, demanding an answer.

“Yes,” I whisper, voice small but sure, because I’m done fighting it. I want him, all of him.

“But first, touch me. Feel what you do to me.” He guides my hand to his cock, still in his jeans, and I feel how hard he is, massive.

God, I want to see it, rip the denim off, suck him until he’s shaking like I am.

“Stroke it, printsessa, make me ache like you do.” I do, rubbing through the fabric, and he growls, “Harder, make me come in my pants like a boy.” The dirty command makes me wetter.

His hands move to my blouse, fingers snagging the hem, yanking it up fast.