Aria
The dinner blurs into a haze of clinking silverware and low voices. Then, the staff disappears. The heavy oak doors close behind Galina’s wheelchair, cutting off her blown kiss.
Silence descends.
Igor’s fingers lace through mine—warm, rough, absolute. He doesn’t pull, just guides me up the stairs. Not to my room. To his.
The double doors click shut, sealing the cavernous master suite.
The air here is different—still, charged, smelling of leather and the night air clinging to his suit.
When he faces me, the aloofness of the last week is gone, burned away by a dark, predatory focus that makes the breath hitch in my throat.
“There are traditions to observe,” he says while striding across the room to open a heavy oak cabinet. Glass glints under the low light—rows of crystal and decanters etched with a double-headed eagle. Crimson wine splashes into a single ornate silver cup.
“A Russian wedding tradition,” he explains.
“The Sviata Chasha. The shared cup. It symbolizes our shared future. We drink from it to acknowledge that we will share all of life’s joys and sorrows together.
Usually, the couple would drink from it three times during the ceremony.
Even though we are not so traditional—we still need something to mark this occasion. ”
Cold silver presses against my palm. I raise the heavy cup, locking eyes with him over the rim.
The wine is rich, dry, coating my tongue like velvet.
I hand it back. He rotates the cup, finding the exact spot my lips touched, and drinks.
His gaze never wavers. The strange intimacy binding us tighter than the ink drying on the marriage license.
The cup clinks against the wood as he sets it aside and places a delicate crystal flute in my hand.
“Another tradition. After the first toast, the couple smashes their glasses. The more shards, the more years of happiness you’ll have together.”
His tone is calm, matter-of-fact, but the air between us brims with electricity. This is real. No more rehearsals. No more negotiations.
We stand before the cold, dark hearth.
“Ready?”
I nod. My throat is too tight to speak.
We sip from our glasses and then throw them. The stone hearth and explode—a sharp, violent crash like a thousand tiny bells. Crystal fragments scatter across the dark stone, a field of fallen stars.
The silence rushing back in is louder than the crash. “Looks like we’re in for a long life together,”
Igor says softly. Closely. Crowding the space between us.
“Igor.” The whisper scrapes my throat. A plea.
Large, warm palms cup my face. Thumbs stroke the sensitive skin of my cheekbones, tracing the bone structure as if memorizing it.
“I promised myself I’d give you time. But I’m not a patient man,” he murmurs, the rumble of his voice transferring to my skin. “And my patience has limits. Will you make me wait, Aria?”
Am I ready? To give him everything?
A cyclone twists my gut, his gravity is stronger. Anchoring me. The only way out is through.
I lean into his touch, eyes fluttering shut. Our last kiss—the inferno it stirred—floods my veins. He calls me young, but I know what I want. I know who I want. He fought this for months; my battle was just as fierce. Now that he’s within my reach. I refuse to turn away.
“No, you won’t have to wait.”
The restraint in his eyes snaps.
His hands claim my waist through silk and lace, burning through the fabric. "Then let’s get you out of this," he murmurs.
Okay. Oh, boy. I glance at the lamps. “The lights… should we turn them off?”
“No. I want to see you. Every inch of your body. See it. Claim it. Own it.”
Gentle pressure on my hips guides me around. Knuckles graze my bare back, leaving trails of fire as he deals with the delicate buttons guarding my spine. One by one, they give way. The heavy silk bodice loosens, sighing as it slides down, pooling around my feet in a cloud.
The cool air hits my skin. I shiver, standing in nothing but the lingerie Galina insisted upon last week.
“I can’t wear this, Galina,” I’d protested, cheeks burning as I held up the scraps of sheer black lace. “It’s... too much.”
Galina had just winked. “Nonsense. And besides, I imagine you won’t be wearing it for long.”
She was right.
I face him again. He freezes. His eyes devour the black lace against my pale skin, the garters snapping against my thighs, the sheer cups doing nothing to conceal my flushed breasts.
A muscle tics in his jaw. He looks at me like I am a prize he killed for.
"Beautiful," he grunts. "Krasotka."
"My grandmother has expensive taste. It’s a shame to ruin this."A rough fingertip traces the edge of the lace over my breast.
"Ruin it?" My voice squeaks.
"By tearing it off you."
My hands flutter up to cover myself, but he’s faster. One large hand pins my wrists gently, firmly against his chest. "No. Don't hide. Never hide from me."
I’m arched over his forearm when he lowers his head.
Wet heat soaks through the sheer lace, searing me.
I can’t strain away from his grasp, and I don’t try.
Not when this is what I asked for. What I want.
Oh God, I want it. Him. My husband. A sharp gasp tears from my throat as his mouth closes over me.
The fabric offers no protection—only friction that buckles my knees.
The suction is deep, possessive. My nipples pucker, turgid and erect.
Responding to his command. His free hand brands every inch it explores, tracking fire over the curve of my waist to the flare of my hip.
Gravity shifts. The floor disappears, replaced by the hard wall of his chest. A few strides later, cool silk meets my back, enveloping me in his scent. It’s not just the smell. He is everywhere—caging me, consuming the space.
"I’m going to make you mine, Aria," he rasps. A palm slides up my thigh, unclasping the garters. "In every way a woman can belong to a man."
Cool air bites at my legs as the stockings vanish. Rough fingertips graze my hips, hooking into the final barrier of lace. "Lift for me."
I obey. The scrap of fabric is gone. I am completely exposed.
Splayed open under the silver light. Before I can attempt to cover myself again, his mouth crashes down.
The kiss steals the oxygen from the room—deep, drugging, tasting of raw need.
I cling to him, drowning in the taste, but the sensation shifts lower.
Fingers slide through the slick heat gathering between my thighs to find the swollen pearl.
I gasp into his mouth. The rhythmic circle of his thumb sends a whine building in my throat. I writhe, weeping slick fluid onto his palm. The tension winds tight and sharp in my belly, driving me to the brink, fingernails digging into the expensive fabric of his suit. I need friction. I need him.
The kiss breaks, leaving my lips throbbing.
The tuxedo jacket blurs as it hits the floor unheeded. Igor settles between my legs, and the fine grain of his trousers brushes my inner thighs—a textured friction that sparks fresh heat against my skin.
"So wet," he growls as his calloused fingers explore the slick folds. "You want this."
Is he asking me or telling me? My mind can’t work it out. So, I can only blurt out the truth. "Yes." “God, yes.”
Hot breath trails down my belly, raising gooseflesh in its wake.
Muscles clench even before his mouth claims the deepest part of me.
It’s an assault. His tongue is a broad, skilled blade, lapping with a rhythm that short-circuits my brain.
He tastes me like a meal he’s been denied for too long, humming against my clit.
I shatter.
The orgasm hits hard—a white-hot wave bowing my back off the mattress. I cry out his name. It feels too good. Too much. Too everything. The pleasure doesn't stop. He tastes me through the tremors, drinking down every drop until I’m limp.
Only then does he lift from my body. He undresses in a frenzy of motion—shirt thrown, tie ripped off. Buttons fly, hitting the floor like hail. He’s the beautiful one; tattooed muscle, scars, raw power. I need time to marvel, but I’m out of time.
Weight returns between my thighs. Hot, heavy pressure nudges my entrance, stretching me before he even enters. It’s huge. A gasp tears out of me. Hands find his biceps, gripping rock-hard muscle to anchor myself against the reality of him.
"Look at me, Aria." He doesn’t wait for me to comply. Damp skin presses against mine, forcing our gazes to lock.
"I’m going to hurt you. Just this once. Then again, never again. Not by me or anyone else. I swear."
His dark eyes are hardened lasers boring into me as if he can etch the vow into my skull. "I believe you," I whisper. But I’m not sure if it’s true. He’s massive. He can’t possibly fit. Will Galina find Igor a replacement wife when he splits me in half?
Then all thoughts flee. A slow, relentless pressure fills me, stretching tissue beyond physics. The movement halts at the barrier. His jaw is a rigid line above me.
"Relax for me, malyshka," he whispers, sweat beading on his brow. "Give it to me."
I exhale, drop my defenses, and open for him. One push shatters the boundary. A sharp tear rips through me. The gasp turns into a cry, nails digging into his shoulders. He freezes, burying his face in the crook of my neck, holding himself still while my body adjusts to the invasion.
"I’ve got you," he whispers against my skin, kissing the wild flutter of my pulse. "You’re okay. Just breathe. I got you…"
The pain fades to a dull throb, replaced by an overwhelming fullness. He is so deep, he’s touching my soul. The motion starts.
It’s not a savage fucking, but a rhythmic, grinding claim. Withdrawal, then a deep-seated return. Over and over. His eyes lock on mine, watching. The friction turns to heat. The ache softens into a throb. My hips arch up to meet him, my pelvis kissing his.
"That’s it," he praises, voice thick. "Take it all. Take your husband."
The vows. The ring. Taking the Aslanov name. It all crashes down. A single tear tracks down my temple, born of the realization of how completely he has surrounded me.
"Igor." I wrap my legs tighter around his waist, pulling him deeper.
"I’m here," he growls. Control slips. Thrusts get harder. Faster. Driving into me with a possessive fervor. "I’m right here. I’m never leaving."
The pressure builds again. Darker. Heavier. Drowning. Every thrust pushes me further under. I go willingly.
"Tell me who you belong to," he demands, the words punctuated by the slam of his hips. "Say it."
"You." Madness takes over, ripping through me as I’m buoyed and crest. Shoved over the edge into a free fall as I orgasm. "Only you!"
A primal roar vibrates against my chest. He drives deep, burying himself to the root, and goes rigid. Hot, endless fluid floods my womb, sealing us together.
Then, gravity takes him. He crushes me into the mattress, but I don't push him away. I hold him. My arms wrap around his sweat-slicked back, feeling the thunder of his heart against mine.
Possessed. Owned.
I drift in the afterglow, pinned to the bed by his girth. I wonder if that’s all I am now—another treasure in the Aslanov estate, locked away in the master suite. But his arms tighten around me even in sleep.
What have I gotten myself into?