Chapter 22
Mary
Islap a hand over my mouth.
Did I just say that? God. What’s wrong with me today?
Anton’s eyes burn up at me, wild and dark all at once. His hands tighten on my hips like he’s seconds from flipping me, pinning me until I can’t move, can’t breathe—except I already can’t breathe, not with his cock pressing so hard against me through my leggings.
I should be embarrassed. I should climb off, reset, laugh it off. But my body has other plans. My hips roll, testing him, and the sound he makes—low, guttural, like it got dragged out of his chest—is enough to make me shiver.
“You’re dangerous, malyshka,” he growls.
“Maybe I like dangerous,” I shoot back, though my voice wobbles. God, I sound insane. Who even am I right now? This isn’t the girl who apologizes to ATMs. This is someone bold, reckless, climbing a Bratva enforcer like he’s my personal playground.
He pushes up onto his elbows, our faces so close I can taste his breath—heat, sweat, hunger. Then he kisses me again, harder this time, lips crashing, teeth dragging, tongue claiming. It’s filthy and wet and perfect, and I’m melting, hands clutching his shoulders like I’ll drown without him.
His grip shifts, sliding lower, palming my ass, squeezing until I gasp into his mouth. He swallows it like it belongs to him.
Every nerve in me is on fire. My thighs tremble against his ribs, sweat sticking my blouse to my skin. We’re both slick, messy, too far gone. And I know if we keep this up, I’m going to completely lose myself right here on this mat.
He breaks the kiss first, forehead pressed to mine, breath ragged.
“Shower,” he rasps. “Now. Before I fuck you into the floor.”
Shower. Oh God. The word alone has me clenching, my imagination sprinting ahead—water pouring over us, his hands sliding everywhere, no clothes, no excuses.
I swallow hard, nerves and want tangling, but my mouth betrays me again. “Maybe I want that too.”
His laugh is dark, rough, like I just sealed my own fate.
And maybe I did.
Anton doesn’t give me a chance to backpedal. His arms lock around me, lifting me clean off the mat like I weigh nothing. Princess hold. Ridiculous. My legs hook his waist anyway, like my body’s been waiting to do it all along.
The world tilts, his boots thudding heavily on the concrete as he carries me out of the gym and into the locker room. The smell changes—rubber and gun oil fading into faint soap, steam, and bleach. A shower hisses somewhere, water dripping in the pipes overhead.
He doesn’t stop kissing me. My mouth, my jaw, the curve of my throat. Hungry, everywhere at once, like he can’t choose what part to claim first. My hands fist in his hair, tugging, needing more.
“Anton,” I gasp when his lips find that spot under my ear, and his growl vibrates straight down my spine.
The door bangs shut behind us, echoing loudly in the tiled room. He presses me to the cold wall, and the contrast of his heat against my front and the chill at my back makes me shiver.
He kisses me again—slower this time, brutal in its intensity. Tongue stroking mine like he’s savoring every inch, like he’ll never get another chance. My chest aches with how much I want to drown in it.
His hand slides up, tracing the sweat-slick line of my spine, pressing me tighter to him, like close isn’t close enough. My blouse is half open, sticking to my skin, and he doesn’t rip it off; he peels it aside, slow, deliberate, lips never leaving mine. It’s maddening, torturous, perfect.
“Sticky,” he mutters against my mouth. “Too fucking sticky.” His thumb drags across the swell of my breast, and I shudder, biting his lip.
The shower’s right there, water misting white through the steam, and he moves us toward it. Still carrying me, still kissing me like his life depends on it.
The spray hits my shoulders, hot, pouring over both of us, soaking my blouse until it clings transparent to my chest. He curses, low and rough, and kisses me harder, water dripping off his jaw, plastering his shirt to his body.
I’m drowning in sensation—the taste of him, the heat of his hands gripping everywhere, the wet cling of fabric sticking us together. Every drag of his mouth is more desperate, more consuming.
And it hits me—sometimes it’s not the sex that’s hot. It’s this. The way he holds me like I’m already his. The way he kisses me like I’m the last thing he’ll ever get.
Anton lowers me, planting my feet under the shower’s spray, water slamming my shoulders, my back, my blouse clinging tight to my lush breasts.
I’m trembling—not from the cold, but from the fire raging inside, every nerve screaming for him.
My hands hit his chest, palms splaying over hot, carved muscle, his soaked shirt molding to every brutal line.
I dig my fingers in, greedy, wanting to claw into him.
“Anton…” I gasp, a raw plea spilling out, my voice shaking with need.
“You’re trouble, malyshka,” He grabs my wrists, his heart pounding under my hands, a wild drumbeat matching mine. His mouth crashes into mine, brutal, wet, unrelenting, tongue thrusting deep, claiming every inch, stealing my breath until I’m nothing but need.
Water pours over us, sliding between our lips, mixing with his taste—musk, heat, danger—making me dizzy, my pussy clenching.
His hands drag down my arms, rough, deliberate, peeling my blouse open, buttons popping, exposing my lace bra, straps slipping, water streaming down my cleavage.
I should be shy, but I’m not. I want his hunger, his reverence, the danger in his touch.
“Too damn many clothes,” he says, voice gravel, fingers grazing my bra’s edge, teasing, not ripping, making me ache.
I yank his shirt up, heavy with water, and he lifts his arms, letting me strip it off, tossing it to the tiles with a wet slap. My pants follow next.
His chest—solid, scarred, slick—makes me moan, my fingers tracing the planes, his heat burning my palms. He hisses, like my touch is a blade, and I want more.
“Malyshka,” he says, voice rough, hands gripping my waist, yanking me flush against him, his cock hard, straining through his pants, grinding into my stomach. I gasp, head spinning, pussy dripping.
His mouth attacks my throat, teeth scraping my collarbone, biting the swell of my breast above the lace, making me whimper, “Oh, hell…”
He palms my ass, squeezing hard, pulling me tighter to grind against his cock, the friction brutal, making my hips buck, chasing him.
“You’re driving me insane,” he says, lips hot against my skin, hands roaming, mapping every curve like he’ll never get enough.
I’m gone, lost in him, no thoughts of danger or tomorrow—just his heat, his mouth, his hands tearing me apart.
He pulls back just long enough to glance up, breath ragged.
“I’m going to make you scream again,” he says, voice low, fingers sliding between my legs, teasing my clit through the lace. I gasp, hips bucking, and he pushes me back against the tile, water pounding my shoulders.
His fingers hook into my panties, tugging them down my thighs, slow, deliberate, like he’s savoring the way they stick to my skin. I step out of them, naked now aside from my bra, and he presses in, his clothed body against my bare one, the rough fabric of his pants scraping my thighs.
“Anton…” I pant, my hands fisting his hair, pulling him down for another kiss.
He claims my mouth, tongue thrusting deep, mimicking what his fingers are about to do. His hand slides between my thighs, fingers finding my clit, circling slow at first, then faster, rougher.
“Spread wider,” he says, voice dark, demanding, and I do, legs parting, my pussy exposed to him under the spray.
One finger slides inside me, then two, curling deep, finding that spot that has my eyes rolling back.
I cry out, “Ohhh,” my hips rocking, chasing his hand. His thumb presses my clit, grinding, and the sensation shoots through me, hot and relentless.
“You’re so wet for me,” he says, voice rough, fingers thrusting faster, the slick sounds echoing under the water. I moan, loud, my body clenching, and he adds a third finger, stretching me, making me gasp. “That’s it, take it.”
I’m panting, “Anton, please,” my voice breaking, hips bucking against his hand. He kisses me again, tongue pushing into my mouth, deep, demanding, in rhythm with his fingers. The dual invasion—his tongue, his fingers—has me trembling, my pussy pulsing, close to the edge.
“Come for me,” he says, voice low, gruff, thumb circling harder.
I shatter, crying out, “Ahhhh!” my body convulsing, pussy squeezing his fingers, soaking his hand under the water. He holds me up, his cock hard against my thigh, as I come down, shaking.
“Fuck, malyshka,” he says, pulling his fingers out, lifting them to his mouth, sucking them clean. “You taste like mine.” His words hit deep, and I’m not scared. I’m ready for more.
Water drums us, steam curling, and I tug at his pants, the last barrier, ripping them down his thighs, freeing his cock—thick, veined, pulsing.
He kicks them off, and I strip my bra, letting it slap the tiles, my lush breasts bare, water streaming over my curves.
We’re naked now, skin slick, pressed tight, his hard body against my soft one, sweat and water mixing in the heat.
He lifts me, pinning me to the tiled wall, my legs wrapping his waist, and thrusts deep, his cock stretching me wide, filling me completely.
“You’re so tight.” Slamming into me, each thrust brutal, raw.
I gasp, nails digging into his shoulders, scraping his scars, his muscles flexing under my hands. He fucks me harder, water splashing, his cock pulsing, and I meet every thrust, bold, fearless, my curves bouncing against him.
“Harder,” I say, daring. “Fuck me harder.”
He groans low, driving deeper, veins throbbing inside me. My pussy grips him tight, and I feel him tense, his breath ragged, then he comes, spilling hot inside me, a second time, his curse in Russian, his deep voice vibrating against my neck.
He holds me there, legs still wrapped around him, water streaming over us, our breaths heavy, ragged.
His cock softens inside me, but he doesn’t pull out, keeping us pressed together, his scarred chest against my breasts, slick skin sliding.
I’m trembling, not from fear but from this fire, this need that’s rewritten me.
And even as I cling to him, lost in the aftershocks, the thought slides in, unwelcome, undeniable: I need to get Plan B today.
The idea burns through the haze, sharp and cold against all this heat. Because the last thing I can afford is to let this man inside me change more than he already has.
I look up at him, water dripping from his jaw, his face raw, open, like he’s seeing me for the first time.
“We need Plan B.”