Chapter 15 - Bianca
He tastes like rain and something darker.
I pull him down onto the bed and he comes willingly, his body covering mine, his weight pressing me into the mattress. The kiss is desperate, consuming—two years of longing and weeks of tension crashing together like waves against rocks.
His clothes are soaked, cold against my skin, but I don't care. All I care about is the heat of his mouth, the grip of his hands, the way he groans against my lips like he's been starving and I'm the only thing that can save him.
"Bianca," he breathes, pulling back just far enough to look at me. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide, but there's a question in them. "Are you sure about this?"
"Stop asking me that."
"I need to know. I need you to be certain, because once we do this—"
I grab the front of his bloodstained shirt and pull him back down. "I've been certain since I walked out into the rain. Now stop talking and kiss me."
He does.
His hands find the hem of my wet sweater and pull it over my head, leaving me in just my bra. The cold air hits my skin and I shiver, but then his mouth is on my throat, my collarbone, the swell of my breasts, and the cold doesn't matter anymore.
Nothing matters except this. Except him.
I fumble with the buttons of his shirt, my fingers clumsy with urgency. He helps me, shrugging out of the ruined fabric, and for a moment I just stare.
His chest is a canvas of ink and violence. Tattoos cover his skin—dark designs that sprawl across his shoulders, snake down his arms, climb up the sides of his ribs. I can't make out the details in the dim light, just shapes and shadows, patterns that speak of a history I don't yet know.
And beneath the ink, scars. They crisscross his body—some old and faded, others newer, still pink. A puckered line below his ribs that looks like a knife wound. A starburst pattern on his shoulder that can only be a bullet hole. Evidence of every fight he's survived, every battle he's won.
I reach out and trace the knife scar with my fingertip, my hand passing over the edge of a tattoo. He goes still, watching me.
"Does it bother you?" he asks quietly.
"No." I trace another scar, following the line where it intersects with dark ink. "They're part of you. Part of your story."
"It's not a pretty story."
"I know." I look up at him, my hand flat against his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart beneath the tattooed skin. "Tell me anyway. Someday."
Something shifts in his expression. The hunger is still there, but there's something else now. Something softer, more vulnerable.
"Someday," he agrees.
Then he's kissing me again, and all thoughts of scars and stories dissolve into sensation.
He unclasps my bra with practiced ease and tosses it aside. His mouth finds my breast, his tongue circling my nipple, and I arch into him with a moan I couldn't suppress if I tried. His hands are everywhere—my waist, my hips, the curve of my ass. Learning me. Memorizing me.
My fingers trace the lines of ink across his back, feeling the raised ridges of old wounds beneath the tattoos. So much pain, written on his body. So much survival. I want to know every story, every scar, every piece of darkness he's carrying.
But not now. Now, I just want to feel.
I reach for his belt, desperate to feel more of him, but he catches my wrist.
"Slow down," he murmurs against my skin. "We have time."
"I don't want slow. I want—"
"I know what you want." He looks up at me, his eyes burning. "And I'm going to give it to you. But not yet. Not until you're ready."
"I am ready."
"You're not." He kisses his way down my stomach, his fingers hooking into the waistband of my pants. "But you will be."
He peels the wet fabric down my legs, taking my underwear with it, and I'm suddenly naked beneath him. Exposed. Vulnerable in a way I've never been with anyone.
Because there hasn't been anyone. Not really. A few awkward dates that went nowhere, kisses that felt wrong, hands I pushed away because they weren't his. I told myself I was too busy with medical school. Too focused on my career. But the truth was simpler and more pathetic.
I was waiting. For two years, without admitting it even to myself, I was waiting for him.
Misha settles between my thighs, his breath warm against my core, and I tense involuntarily. He notices immediately.
"Relax," he says softly. "I've got you."
His mouth finds me, and I stop thinking entirely.
The first stroke of his tongue pulls a sound from my throat that I don't recognize—something between a gasp and a moan. He does it again, and again, his hands gripping my hips to hold me still as I writhe beneath him.
He knows exactly what he's doing. Every movement is deliberate, calculated, designed to drive me higher. He reads my body like a map, finding the places that make me cry out and returning to them relentlessly.
The pleasure builds like a wave, cresting higher and higher until I'm balanced on the edge of something terrifying and beautiful. I fist my hands in the sheets, in his hair, in anything I can reach.
"Misha—" His name tears out of me. "I'm going to—"
"Let go," he says against my skin. "I want to feel you come apart."
And I do.
The orgasm crashes through me, whiting out my vision, stealing my breath. I hear myself cry out—his name, maybe, or just a wordless sound of release—and then I'm floating, shattered into a million pieces, held together only by his hands on my body.
When I come back to myself, he's kissing his way up my stomach, my ribs, my breasts. His body settles over mine, his weight a comfort rather than a constraint. I can feel him through his remaining clothes—hard, straining, wanting.
"You're beautiful when you come," he says, his voice rough. "I've imagined it so many times. The reality is better."
I reach for his belt again, and this time he doesn't stop me. My fingers work the buckle free, then the button of his pants, then the zipper. He helps me push the fabric down his hips, kicking it off the bed, and then he's as naked as I am.
I look at him—really look. The tattoos continue down his sides, across his hips, disappearing beneath the V of muscle that leads my eyes lower.
His body is hard, sculpted by years of violence and discipline.
The ink seems to move in the low light, shadows and shapes I want to trace with my fingers, my tongue, my lips.
And his cock—thick, heavy, intimidating in a way that makes my stomach clench with equal parts desire and nervousness.
He sees my expression and goes still.
"We can stop," he says. "Whenever you want, we can stop."
"I don't want to stop."
"Bianca." He cups my face in his hands, forcing me to meet his eyes. "Have you done this before?"
The question hangs between us. I could lie. Could pretend experience I don't have, save myself the embarrassment of admitting the truth.
But I'm tired of lies. Tired of pretending. If we're going to do this, I want it to be real.
"No," I whisper. "Not... not all the way."
Something flashes across his face—surprise, then understanding, then something fierce and possessive that makes my breath catch.
"You waited," he says. Not a question.
"I didn't mean to. I didn't even realize I was doing it.
But every time someone else touched me, it felt wrong.
It felt like betrayal, even though you'd left, even though I had no reason to be loyal to a man who'd disappeared without explanation.
" I swallow hard. "It was always you. Even when I hated you, it was always you. "
He closes his eyes, his jaw tight, something trembling through his body that might be restraint or might be emotion or might be both.
"Bianca." My name comes out broken. "I don't deserve this. I don't deserve you."
"Probably not." I pull his face down to mine. "But you have me anyway. So stop talking and show me what I've been waiting for."
He kisses me—softer this time, deeper. His hand slides between us, fingers finding my entrance, testing my readiness. I'm slick, swollen, still sensitive from the orgasm. When he pushes one finger inside me, I gasp into his mouth.
"You're so tight," he murmurs. "I need to prepare you. I don't want to hurt you."
"You won't."
"I might. The first time—"
"I know what the first time involves." I arch into his touch. "I'm a medical student, remember? I know the anatomy."
A ghost of a smile crosses his face. "Then you know I need to be careful."
He adds a second finger, stretching me slowly, and I feel my body resisting and then yielding. It's not painful—not exactly—but it's intense. Foreign. I grip his shoulders, my nails digging into his tattooed skin, and try to relax.
"That's it," he breathes. "Just let me in."
His thumb finds my clit, circling in slow, maddening strokes, and the tension begins to build again. By the time he adds a third finger, I'm rocking against his hand, chasing the sensation, my nervousness forgotten.
"Please," I hear myself beg. "Misha, please—"
"Please what?"
"I need you inside me. I need—"
He withdraws his fingers and positions himself at my entrance. I feel the blunt head of him pressing against me, seeking entry, and my heart pounds so hard I'm sure he can hear it.
"Look at me," he says.
I open my eyes. His face is inches from mine, his gaze intense, burning with something I can't name. The tattoos on his arms frame my vision, dark patterns against pale skin.
"I'm going to go slow," he says. "If it hurts too much, tell me. We can stop whenever you want."
"I don't want to stop."
"I know. But the offer stands." He kisses me softly. "Ready?"
"Yes."
He pushes forward.
The pressure is intense—stretching, burning, my body struggling to accommodate something it's never taken before. I gasp, my hands flying to his arms, gripping the inked skin hard enough to leave marks.
"Breathe," he says. "Look at me and breathe."
I force myself to inhale, to exhale, to focus on his eyes instead of the discomfort. He eases forward another inch, then stops, giving me time to adjust. His jaw is clenched, sweat beading on his brow, the effort of holding back written in every line of his body.
"More," I whisper.
He gives me more. Slowly, inexorably, he sinks into me until his hips are flush with mine and I've taken all of him.
We stay there, frozen, connected in the most intimate way possible. The pain has faded to a dull ache, overwhelmed by the sense of fullness, of completeness. Like a piece of me that was missing has finally slotted into place.
"You feel incredible," he breathes. "Better than I imagined. Better than anything."
"Move," I tell him. "Please move."
He does.
The first stroke is slow, careful—almost all the way out, then back in.
I feel every inch of him, every ridge and vein, my body gripping him like it never wants to let go.
The second stroke is a little faster, a little deeper.
By the third, I'm meeting his rhythm, my hips rising to match his thrusts.
"That's it," he groans. "God, Bianca, you're perfect. You're—"
He buries his face in my neck, his hips snapping faster, harder. The bed creaks beneath us. The rain continues to fall outside, a percussive backdrop to the sounds of our bodies coming together.
The pleasure builds again—different this time, deeper, centered where we're joined. I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him closer, taking him deeper. His hand slides between us, finding my clit, working it in time with his thrusts.
"Come for me," he demands. "Come with me inside you."
The orgasm hits me like a freight train—harder than the first, more consuming. I scream his name, my body clenching around him, and I feel him follow me over the edge. His rhythm stutters, his whole body tensing, and then he's spilling inside me with a groan that sounds like surrender.
We collapse together, tangled and sweating, our hearts pounding in unison.
For a long moment, neither of us speaks. We just breathe, holding each other, letting the aftershocks ripple through our bodies. His weight is heavy on me, but I don't want him to move. I want to stay here forever, wrapped in him, the rain falling outside and the world held at bay.
Then he lifts his head and looks at me. His expression is open in a way I've never seen—vulnerable, almost wounded.
"I don't deserve you," he says again.
"Maybe not." I reach up and trace the line of his jaw, feeling the stubble beneath my fingertips. "But you have me anyway."
He rolls onto his side, pulling me with him, keeping us connected. His hand strokes down my spine, soothing, possessive. The tattoos on his arm wrap around me like a second embrace.
"Are you okay?" he asks quietly. "Did I hurt you?"
"A little. But it was worth it." I press my lips to his chest, tasting salt and skin. "It was everything I imagined and more."
His arms tighten around me. "Sleep," he murmurs. "We'll figure out the rest tomorrow."
I should argue. Should point out that nothing has been resolved, that Sergei is still out there, that my life is still a disaster. But his arms are warm around me, his heartbeat steady beneath my ear, and for the first time in weeks, I feel safe.
So I close my eyes and let the darkness take me.
The last thing I feel is his lips on my forehead, and his voice—so soft I might have imagined it:
"Mine. You've always been mine."