Chapter 12
Mary
Idon’t know if it’s the nightmare still clawing through my veins, adrenaline mixing with the heat of Anton sitting here, bruised and steady, like he’s the only thing real—or the way his voice dropped low and filthy when he warned me not to look at him like that.
Maybe it’s all of it, crashing together inside me. Fear, relief, want.
Because when Anton Malikov looks at me like that—like he could ruin me or worship me, and doesn’t care which one comes first—it does something to me I can’t explain. My pulse is wild. My skin’s on fire.
I lean forward, closing the gap, and kiss him.
It’s messy—wet cheeks, shaky hands—but he meets me, mouth claiming mine, all control and hunger that wipes my name from my brain. His heat presses in, solid chest, hard muscle, and I’m drowning, lost in him.
His hand grips my shoulder, firm, guiding me back until the mattress catches me, sheets cool against my spine. He follows, caging me, his weight heavy, hot, impossible to ignore.
His fingers slide under my T-shirt, spreading over my ribs, climbing slowly, and my skin prickles, a sharp shiver racing across my flesh like electricity. I gasp into his mouth, sound spilling before I can stop it.
“I… I saved you,” I whisper, words breaking between kisses.
He pulls back, head tilting slightly, breath hitching for a beat as his lips hover over my neck, then press down, hot and deliberate.
“That so?” His hand slides higher, closing over my breast, kneading softly, thumb circling my nipple until my back arches, a moan ripping out.
“Ahhh… fuck.”
“Tell me how you saved me,” he says, mouth dropping to my chest, sucking my nipple through the white T-shirt, the fabric clinging wet, outlining the hard peak as his tongue presses, hot and rough. My hips buck, a sharp cry spilling out, my pussy clenching, soaking my panties.
“I… shot Evan,” I pant, nails scraping his shoulders, digging into muscle. “He was gonna… Fuck, Anton…” His tongue flicks, relentless, and I’m trembling, curves shaking. “I took your gun… saved you.”
He groans, low, raw, like I’ve cracked him open.
“Fuck, you’re a fighter, malyshka,” he says, voice dark, proud, lips brushing my collarbone.
“Gunned him down for me?” His thigh presses between mine, spreading me wide, and I feel him—hard, heavy, straining against his pants.
My panties cling, damp, as he grinds forward, just enough to make me gasp. “Tell me more.”
“In my dream,” I moan, voice cracking as he sucks my nipple again through the drenched T-shirt, wet and hot, his fingers rolling the other, pinching harder. “I… killed him for you.” My hips rock, desperate, chasing his thigh.
“Good fucking girl,” he says, words rough, dragging me closer, chest to chest, heat searing through my T-shirt. “Learning to take what you want.” His hand slides to my waist, gripping tight, and I’m panting, lost in him, fear melting as his want lights me up.
I’m too deep in this, too far gone, but his desire—fuck, it’s making me burn.
I fumble with his shirt, fingers clumsy on the half-unbuttoned fabric, damp and clinging to his chest. I tug it open, revealing the deep blue-black bruise across his ribs, ugly, raw, and fuck, it makes him hotter, like he’s fought wars and walked back.
My hands slide over his scars, hard planes of muscle, and I want every inch.
His holster’s strapped tight, leather cool against my palm.
I unhook the buckle, slow, metal clicking, leather creaking as I slide it off his side, the gun’s weight thudding to the floor.
I straddle him now, thighs gripping his waist, his cock hard and stiff under his pants, pressing into my core.
“Fuck, Anton,” I pant, grinding down, feeling his length through the fabric. “You’re so hard…” My fingers trace his cock, stroking slowly, the bulge thick, pulsing under my hand.
“Keep touching me,” he demands, his hand sliding under my T-shirt, kneading my breast again, rolling my nipple until I moan, “Ohhh.”
“You feel that, malyshka?” he says, pinching harder, making my pussy clench, soaking my panties more. “Stroke my cock harder, make it ache.”
I do, rubbing faster, fingers tracing the veins through his pants, and he groans, low, “Fuck, yes, like that.” His wounds—bruises, scars—make him look like a goddamn warrior, and I’m losing it, wanting him more, fear gone, replaced by this raw need.
“Take these off,” I whisper, bold, fingers hooking into his pants but not pulling yet, then sliding my panties down my thighs, wet and clinging.
I’m bare now, pussy dripping, straddling him, grinding against his clothed cock, the friction searing my clit.
His hand slides between my legs, fingers grazing my clit, making me gasp. “Anton…”
“Say what you want,” he says, voice dark, circling my clit slowly, teasing. “Tell me, or I stop.”
“I want you,” I pant, grinding harder, voice shaky but sure. “Want your cock inside me.”
My boldness shocks me, but his groan—deep, hungry—spurs me on.
“Beg for it again.”
“I… I want your cock inside you,” I whisper, then lift my chin. “Please…” I say louder, daring him. His cock pulses harder under my hand.
He growls against my ear, breath ragged. “Your dirty mouth’s got me aching, malyshka. So damn hot when you talk like that.”“Your dirty mouth’s got me aching, malyshka,” he says, voice rough, lips brushing my ear. “So damn hot when you talk like that.”
His cock twitches, and I’m done being shy.
“You like it?” I say, voice bold, yanking his pants down, freeing his cock. It’s massive, thick as my wrist, veined, head swollen, glistening.
I want to fuck him until I can’t breathe, but my mouth is starving for him first. Jasper’s stories about sucking cock used to make me blush, but not now.
I lean down, lips brushing the tip, tongue swirling slowly around the engorged head, licking the slit, tasting salt.
He groans, head arching back, muscles clenching, his scarred body flexing in the dim light.
“Suck me, malyshka,” he says, hand fisting my hair, guiding gently.
I take him deep, throat stretching, lips tight, slurping as I bob slowly, then faster, two hands gripping his base, stroking. I pull back, swirling my tongue around the head, then dip lower, sucking his balls softly, rolling them in my mouth.
He curses, “Hell, yes,” his cock pulsating, twitching.
“Finger yourself,” he orders, pinching my nipple sharply through my T-shirt. “Show me how wet you are.”
I lift my hips, easing two fingers into my pussy, so wet they slide in smoothly, a low moan escaping, “Oh… Anton.” I thrust them deep, in and out, matching the bob of my head as I suck his cock, one hand wrapped tight around his massive length, stroking in time.
My tongue flicks the slit, swirling the swollen head, slurping wet, his musky scent filling my nose, driving me wild.
His hand fists my hair, guiding my head, firm but slow, as I take him deeper, throat stretching, lips tight, sucking for what feels like forever, each bob pulling a groan from him that sets my pussy throbbing.
Every part of me is alive—his rough moans, the heat of his cock, my dripping juices, the sting of my nipple as he pinches, twists, making me cry out into his cock, my pussy clenching tight, dripping onto the sheets. I’m so close, nearly coming from his sounds alone, every sensation burning me up.
“Yes, malyshka, fuck yes.” He watches me, voice rough, fingers tightening in my hair, guiding me faster, then slower, as I deep-throat him, gagging softly, tongue swirling the head.
“Ah…” he hisses, voice strained. “Slow down, or I’ll come down your throat.”
I pull back, grinning, tongue flicking his slit one last time, and climb up. His hand grazes my cheek, thumb tracing my swollen lips.
“You’re fucking beautiful like this,” he says, voice low, raw, like he means it, and it hits me hard, making my chest tighten.
Beautiful. The word tears through me.
No one’s ever looked at me and said that. Not like this. And now I’m fucked, because I believe him.
“I want to ride you,” I say, feeling brave and daring, guiding his cock to my entrance, sinking down slowly, stretching wide, my pussy gripping him tight.
“Oh, hell,” I moan, rocking my hips, riding deep, my curves bouncing, lush breasts shaking under my shirt.
“Look at you, opening wide for my cock,” he says, voice dark, hands gripping my hips, guiding my rhythm. His muscles clench, scars and bruises flexing, making him hotter, a warrior I’m claiming.
I grind faster, clit rubbing against him, and he slaps my ass, sharp, then harder.
“Yes!” I cry, the sting new, thrilling, my pussy soaking more.
“Ride me harder,” he says, slapping again, “make that pussy come.”
I do, bouncing faster, moaning, “I’m close, I’m coming.” My pussy clenches, and I shatter, coming hard, “Fuuuucck!” my body convulsing, soaking his cock.
My pussy’s still pulsing around him, but he doesn’t let me rest. He grabs me, flips me sideways like I weigh nothing, hooks my leg over his shoulder, and drives back in.
“Anton—fuck—” I gasp, nails digging into his arm. He’s ruthless, pounding into me like he owns every inch of me, cock slamming deep, stretching me open until I’m crying out.
The angle’s brutal, his cock hitting places inside me I didn’t know existed, each thrust sharper, harder, making my whole body quake. My leg trembles against his shoulder, his hand fisting in my hair, forcing me to take it.
“You feel that?” he growls, fucking me deeper, harder, until I’m clawing at the sheets. “That’s mine. Every squeeze, every drop—you give it all to me.”
I can’t even answer—just whimper, broken sounds spilling out of me while he keeps thrusting, dragging another orgasm right out of me when I thought I was empty. My pussy spasms again, clamping down tight, milking him, and I scream his name.
My body’s still trembling, pussy pulsing around Anton’s cock, his heat pressed against me, legs over his shoulder, our breaths heavy in the dim light.
The sheets are damp, clinging to my skin, and I’m a wreck—alive, bold, someone I never thought I’d be.
The nightmare’s gone, Evan’s ghost and Dave’s blood burned away by Anton’s touch, his want.
He pulls out slowly, his cock slick, leaving me gasping, my pussy clenching at the emptiness.
“Stay still, malyshka,” he says, voice low, rough, as he grabs a cloth from the bedside table.
His fingers stroke my thigh, gentle but firm, wiping the mess of us from my skin, his touch tender against the raw sting of my spanked ass.
It’s new—this care, this softness from a man carved from scars and steel.
But something’s off. He’s quiet. Too quiet. His jaw ticks, his eyes shadowed, like he’s already somewhere else. Like he’s thinking about something he won’t let me see.
I want to ask—what’s going on, what’s happening outside this room—but he won’t tell me. He never tells me. And I hate how much I wish he would.
I swallow, whisper, “Anton… is everything okay?”
His gaze cuts to me. Green, unreadable. For a heartbeat, I think he might answer. Instead, he brushes hair from my cheek, thumb dragging over my lips like he’s trying to erase the question.
Just then, the alarm on my phone shatters the silence—4:30 AM, shrill and unforgiving.
I groan, burying my face in the pillow. He’s the one who made me set it, muttering last night, “Training starts before your excuses do.” So, like an idiot, I picked the earliest time I could think of. And now I’m half-dead with sleep.
I feel his hand tugging me upright. “Let’s go, malyshka. Up.”
“Anton,” I whine, sore in every inch of my body, “we didn’t even sleep. Can’t training start at… I don’t know, a humane hour? Like after work?”
His mouth twitches, not quite a smile. “Survival doesn’t wait for your beauty sleep.” He pulls me to my feet, steering me toward the bathroom.
When I flop back down, refusing to move, he doesn’t argue. He just scoops me up, one arm under my knees, the other around my back, carrying me across the room like I weigh nothing.
“You’re insane,” I mutter into his chest. “And bossy. And—ow—sadistic. My legs don’t even work.”
“Good,” he says flatly as he shoulders the bathroom door open. He sets me on the counter and flips on the shower. Steam spills into the air. His gaze holds mine, sharp, unrelenting. “Then we train your upper body first.”