♞Chapter Thirty one♞
Mikhail
Lola sits in the passenger seat with that scowl that makes my blood heat.
Her arms are crossed, legs wrapped in black denim, and her bottom lip is caught between her teeth.
Roman had already ghosted by the time she made it downstairs, which pissed her off more than anything.
She wanted to talk to him about Ayla, probably to try to convince him to go easy on the girl.
But Roman doesn’t do gentle. He was raised on blood and brutality.
Anyone soft gets gutted. I know that better than anyone.
Before she even stepped into the car, Lola made me promise: no one touches Ayla for the day. Get her food. Clothes. Let her breathe. Fine. That I could manage. But when Roman walks back through those doors, there’s no saving her. He’ll rip her to pieces with a smile on his face.
I try to change the subject. “My groveling isn’t over yet, is it?”
She clicks her tongue. “Next time you screw up, I’m kicking your ass.”
Fair enough.
***
She drags me to the mall next. Rodeo Drive-level chaos, though we’re not even in L.A.
Every store she walks into, she walks out of with something obscene.
Balenciaga sunglasses she doesn’t even try on.
Alexander McQueen boots. A Gucci handbag she says could double as a weapon.
I trail behind her, a black card in my hand and a half-hard cock in my pants just watching her move.
“You’re quiet,” she says, not even turning around as she swipes my card again. Prada this time. “You scared of the bill?”
“I love watching you spend my money. You know that it makes my cock hard.”
Her wicked eyes glint. “Hmm. I’ll buy another pair of shoes, then. Or five. Might even grab something for Ayla.”
“You could burn the whole store down, and I’d pay them double for the ashes.”
She raises a brow. “You’re so desperate to get back in my good graces, it’s embarrassing.”
“It’s not desperation,” I say. “It’s obsession.”
“Same thing.”
“Not when it’s me.”
She smirks and turns back to the racks, fingers trailing over velvet and leather like she’s choosing what to skin next. She’s having fun, and I’d let her spend every dime I have if it meant she’d forgive me for the bullshit that came out of my mouth.
In Dior, she makes me hold ten bags while she tries on a dress with feathers. It’s ugly, but I don’t tell her that.
“You’re lucky I don’t make you carry these to the car shirtless,” she calls from the fitting room.
“Please do,” I say. “You’d be doing them all a favor.”
She doesn’t say much on the drive back, just scrolls on her phone while her Prada heels rest on the dash.
Her bags are piled so high in the backseat they threaten to block the rearview, but I don’t care.
I don’t need to look behind me. I’ve got her next to me.
And I’ll be damned if she ever leaves again.
When we pull up to the building, I open her door, but she doesn’t move until she finishes her text. That alone has me irrationally hard. She walks toward her own apartment across the hall.
“Where do you think you’re going?” I ask, keys still in hand.
She doesn’t even glance over her shoulder. “Home.”
I block her door with my body. “Wrong. Our home is to the left.”
“Since when?”
“Since you started spending my money like a wife. Get in the apartment, Lola.”
She crosses her arms, smile slow and dangerous. “Beg me.”
I glance around the empty hallway. Cameras off. Good.
“Lola, baby,” I murmur, lowering to my knees, “I’ll kiss the floor you walk on. But don’t test me unless you want me to fuck you against this door.”
“Tempting.” She leans in, her mouth grazing my ear. “But still not begging.”
I press my forehead to hers. “Come inside. Stay the night. Or I swear I’ll burn your apartment to the ground just to make sure you sleep beside me.”
She laughs. “You’re insane.”
“For you? I’m fucking feral.”
She sighs. “Fine. But only because you look hot carrying my entire haul like my broke little assistant.”
I smirk, grab the rest of the bags, which could fund a minor government, and push the door to my place open with my back.
Inside, she kicks off her heels and surveys the space like a queen returning to her throne.
She beams when she sees how carefully I hung every painting I bought of hers in my space. I drop the bags near the bed.
“Sit,” she orders, pointing to the armchair in the corner of the room while digging through the bags. I obey. She pulls out a red lace set, and my mouth goes dry.
“You’re going to try that on?”
She hums. “You bought it. Might as well show you what you paid for.”
She strips in front of me. Fuck, her body is perfect.
Curvy. Soft. The shirt slides off her shoulders.
The pants come next, and she’s bare underneath.
My fists clench around the arms of the chair.
She wears the lingerie like she’s doing it for herself, not for me, which makes it ten times hotter. She straddles my lap without warning.
I hiss. “Lola—”
She rolls her hips once—just once—and I nearly come in my pants.
“You like your purchase?” she asks sweetly, dragging her nails down my chest.
“You have no idea what you’re doing to me.”
“Oh, I do.” She grinds again, slower this time. “Consider this part of your punishment.”
Her lips brush mine, but she doesn’t kiss me. “I should make you beg to come,” she whispers. “Beg to touch me.”
“I’d sell my soul for a taste.”
She gets off me, leaving me aching, throbbing, and borderline deranged.
Beautifully so. I sit there, barely holding on, watching her try on outfit after outfit.
And I can’t look away. She wears that goddamn feather dress next.
The ugly one she tossed into the cart just to piss me off.
It’s the kind of thing that should’ve killed my erection.
Should’ve. But instead? I’m still hard as a rock for this vixen.
No panties. No bra. Just bare, glistening skin beneath those ridiculous feathers. She twirls slowly in front of me, arms in the air. “Still think it’s hideous?”
“I think I want to bend you over and fuck you in it until the seams split.”
She giggles, bending over the edge of the bed, and starts swaying her hips. Feathers lift just enough to show me heaven. No panties. Just ass and slick cunt and—
Jesus Christ.
She looks at me from over her shoulder, lashes fluttering. “Aw, poor baby. Does the big bad Bratva boss have a boner over a girl in feathers?” Her tongue teases the corner of her mouth. “What was that about groveling?”
“Still groveling, baby. I’ll grovel with my face buried in your pussy.
” I drop to my knees and bury my tongue between her legs like a man possessed.
She jerks forward with a strangled moan, her hands clawing at the mattress, trying to stay upright as I devour her from behind.
Filthy. Wet. Loud. I fuck her with my tongue, with my fingers, until she’s shaking, whimpering my name, leaking down my chin.
Feathers tickle my face as I groan into her. She’s a mess. My mess.
She jolts, half gasp, half wicked laugh, as I kiss her asshole. “I want every fucking inch of you,” I mutter against her skin, licking up slowly, then spitting before licking her again. “I want you leaking from both holes and begging me not to stop.”
“I should keep you in this dress,” I pant, standing up and pressing my cock against her. “Tie you to the bed. Make you come until you’re crying into my sheets.”
“I’d still make you beg,” she challenges.
I growl, flipping her onto her back. Feathers flare out beneath her like wings. I kiss her hard. Tongue, teeth, and all need.
“I missed you,” she breathes, just before I push inside her.
“Say it again,” I whisper into her mouth.
“I missed you.”
“Louder.”
“I fucking missed you, Mikhail.”
The bed rocks. Feathers fly. Her hands are in my hair, on my back, nails in deep. She bites my shoulder to keep from screaming.
“Come for me,” I growl, speeding up. “Soak this ugly fucking dress. Come while I ruin it.”
And she does just that with a broken moan and a shudder that rips through her whole body.
I follow her over the edge seconds later, gritting her name like a prayer I don’t deserve.
Coming so hard I see white. We collapse in a heap of feathers and sweat and bruised lips. The air is thick with the scent of sex.
“I want to return the dress,” she mumbles.
I laugh against her throat. “Over my dead fucking body. It grew on me.”