Chapter 29 Ivy
IVY
The kiss catches me completely off guard. One moment I'm standing here, overwhelmed by everything Konstantin has just told me about my father, and the next, his lips are on mine, warm and demanding. My mind goes blank—all the questions, all the confusion, everything just… disappears.
I should pull away. I should demand more answers. But instead, I melt into him, my hands fisting in his shirt as he deepens the kiss. His arms wrap around me, pulling me against his chest, and I can feel his heart beating as rapidly as mine.
"Ivy," he murmurs against my lips, and there's something desperate in his voice that makes my chest tighten.
I don't want to think anymore. I don't want to process what he's told me about my father being involved with the Bratva, about blood oaths and protection. I just want to feel something other than this crushing weight of revelation.
When he lifts me onto his desk, scattering papers to the floor, I don't protest. The Christmas lights from the tree in the corner cast a warm glow across his office, and outside the window, snow continues to fall in the darkness.
It feels surreal, like we're in our own private world where nothing else exists.
His hands are gentle but urgent as they roam over my body, and I arch into his touch. Every kiss, every caress drives away the chaos in my mind. This is what I need—this connection, this feeling of being completely present in the moment instead of drowning in questions I'm not ready to face.
"Are you sure?" he asks, his green eyes searching mine.
I nod, unable to find words. I need this. I need him.
My hands fist in his shirt, pulling him closer as I kiss him back with equal fervor. The taste of him—coffee and something uniquely masculine—floods my senses. His tongue sweeps across my lower lip, and I open for him without hesitation, a soft moan escaping as he deepens the kiss.
"Ivy," he breathes against my mouth, my name a prayer on his lips.
I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him between my thighs. The hard length of him presses against me through our clothes, and I arch into the contact, desperate for more. My fingers work frantically at the buttons of his shirt, needing to feel his skin against mine.
His green eyes are dark with want, but there's concern there too—always so careful with me, even in his passion.
Instead of answering with words, I capture his mouth again, pouring all my need and confusion and desperate hunger into the kiss. He groans low in his throat, the sound vibrating through me as his control finally snaps.
His hands are everywhere—sliding up my thighs, pushing my sweater up and over my head, unhooking my bra with practiced ease. The cool air hits my heated skin, but then his mouth is on my throat, my collarbone, trailing fire down to my breasts.
"So beautiful," he murmurs against my skin, his accent thicker with arousal. His tongue circles one nipple before he takes it into his mouth, and I cry out, my back arching off the desk. My fingers tangle in his dark hair, holding him to me as pleasure shoots straight to my core.
He lavishes attention on both breasts while his hands work at the button of my jeans.
I lift my hips, helping him slide them down along with my panties until I'm completely bare before him.
The vulnerability should terrify me, but the way he looks at me—like I'm something precious and perfect—makes me feel powerful instead.
"Konstantin," I breathe, reaching for his belt. My fingers shake as I work the leather free, then move to his zipper. He's hard and hot in my palm when I free him, and he hisses through his teeth at my touch.
"Wait," he says, catching my wrist. "Let me—"
But I shake my head, guiding him to me. "I need you. Now. Please."
Something in my voice must convince him because he positions himself at my entrance, his eyes locked on mine. "Tell me if I hurt you," he says, and then he's pushing inside me slowly, carefully, giving me time to adjust to his size.
The stretch is intense, almost overwhelming, but I want it—want him—more than I've ever wanted anything. I wrap my arms around his neck, pulling him down for another kiss as he fills me completely.
"Move," I whisper against his lips, and he does, setting a rhythm that has me gasping and clinging to him. Each thrust sends waves of pleasure through me, building higher and higher until I'm trembling on the edge.
His hands grip my hips, angling me so he hits that perfect spot inside me with every stroke.
The desk creaks beneath us, papers and pens falling to the floor, but all I can focus on is the feel of him moving inside me, the way his muscles bunch and flex under my hands, the soft Russian words he murmurs against my ear.
"So tight," he groans, his pace becoming more urgent. "So perfect. My Ivy."
The possessiveness in his voice sends me over the edge. I cry out his name as my orgasm crashes over me, my body clenching around him as pleasure explodes through every nerve. He follows me over, burying his face in my neck as he finds his own release, my name a broken groan from his throat.
We stay like that for long moments, breathing hard, hearts racing against each other. Finally, Konstantin pulls back to look at me, his hand gentle as he brushes my hair away from my face.
"Are you all right?" he asks softly, and I know he’s not talking about the sex. He’s asking me if I’m alright after finding out my father was in the Mafia.
I nod, not trusting my voice yet. He helps me sit up, gathering my scattered clothes while I try to process what just happened. The intensity of it, the way we came together like we were trying to heal each other's wounds through touch alone.
He disappears briefly, returning with a warm cloth to clean me up with tender care. Then he helps me dress, his movements gentle and reverent, before pulling on his own clothes.
"Stay here," he says, pressing a soft kiss to my forehead. "I'll get us something from the kitchen."
While he's gone, I try to make sense of the chaos of emotions swirling through me. The physical connection we just shared was incredible, but it's the emotional intimacy that leaves me feeling raw and exposed. The way he held me, looked at me, whispered my name like it was sacred.
He returns with a tray of tea and some of the leftover Christmas cookies Anya made, setting it on the small table by the window. The normalcy of it—sharing tea and cookies after such intensity—makes my chest tight with an emotion I'm not ready to name.
"Tell me about my father," I say quietly as he settles beside me on the small couch. "Please. I need to know."
Konstantin is quiet for a long moment, his hands wrapped around his tea cup. When he finally speaks, his voice is soft, almost reverent.
"Andrei was a good man," he begins. "One of the best I've ever known. He never wanted the life he was born into, but he was loyal to his family, to his obligations."
I think of my father—the man who taught me to ride a bike, who read me bedtime stories, who always seemed to know when I needed a hug. "He didn't seem like…"
"Like a criminal?" Konstantin's smile is wry. "That's because he wasn't, not in his heart. He did what he had to do to protect the people he loved, but he hated the violence, the bloodshed.”
Suddenly, memories start clicking into place like pieces of a puzzle I never knew I was solving.
The way my father would sometimes get phone calls that made him tense and quiet.
How he'd insist on walking me to school certain days, his eyes constantly scanning the street.
The time I found him cleaning a gun in the garage and he'd quickly hidden it, telling me it was just for protection.
"The job at Otrava," I say slowly. "That wasn't just because the owner was his friend, was it?"
"Viktor and I have been watching over you for years, making sure you were safe. The job was a way to keep you close, to monitor any threats."
Viktor. The man who always leaves me gifts in the form of wood carvings.
"My whole life has been a lie," I breathe, the weight of it crushing down on me.
"No," Konstantin says firmly, taking my hands in his. "Your father's love for you was real. Everything he did, every choice he made, was to give you the life he never had. A normal life, away from all this."
But I can barely hear him over the roaring in my ears. My father—my gentle, loving father—was part of the Russian Mafia. And my mother has been lying to me for eleven years.
The betrayal cuts deeper than any physical wound. All those times she'd get that distant look when I mentioned him, all the times she'd change the subject when I asked about his past. She knew.
I stand abruptly, pacing to the window. The Christmas lights blur through my tears as the full magnitude hits me. Everything I thought I knew about my family, about my life, has been built on lies.
"I have to talk to her," I say suddenly, turning back to Konstantin. "I have to confront my mother."