Chapter 33 Kir
KIR
“And we’re slipping off the course that we prepared / But in all chaos, there is calculation”
— “Glory And Gore” by Lorde
I haven’t moved.
Which is so fucking pathetic I could laugh.
Jillian had me pegged as far as stage setting goes.
I’m in my office, lights off, face lit up blue by the glowing screen—but she got the rest wrong.
My belt has remained buckled. My hand is resting on it, has been doing nothing but that for the entire duration of her performance, but I haven’t undone the clasp.
Haven’t unzipped. Haven’t touched myself once.
I just watched.
Not because I didn’t want to. Christ, I wanted to. From the second she pulled that shirt over her head, my entire body went rigid and my cock was so hard it became agony. When she peeled those shorts down and I saw the wet patch on the cotton, I almost spilled in my pants without lifting a finger.
But I didn’t move.
Because she told me to wait. She told me explicitly that it was her terms and her pace and her show, and so I sat here in my dark office on the forty-ninth floor and I waited.
That’s a new development for me. Obedience?
Fuck that. I don’t do obedience; I never have.
Lukas has tried to beat it into me for thirty years and the only thing he accomplished was teaching me to hit back harder.
Teachers, tutors, coaches, even commanding officers during the brief stint at military school that Lukas arranged—none of them could make me follow an order I didn’t want to follow.
But Jillian whispers patience into a pinhole camera from six miles away and I turn into a fucking statue.
Now, she’s asleep. Her red hair is fanned out across the pillow, her face soft and gentle.
Now, it’s time.
I undo my belt.
Not to the image on the screen, though. Nor to the memory of her fingers between her legs or the sounds she made, so wet and wanton.
All of that is seared into my brain forever, and I’ll use it later, probably tomorrow, or the day after, or— Alright, if we’re being honest, every day for the rest of my miserable life.
But right now, in this chair, I close my eyes and I start to dream of something different.
I’m in her apartment. The mask is on. She’s standing in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, hip cocked against the frame. I walk toward her, and she doesn’t flinch. She reaches up with both hands and hooks her fingers under the edge of the fabric and she peels it up.
The mask comes off. And in the fantasy, I let it.
I stand there with my whole face exposed, every scar and every shadow, and I wait for the thing that always comes next: The recoil.
The disgust. The moment someone sees Kirill Lazarev, son of Lukas, blood of the Bratva, and decides they want no part of it.
But Jillian doesn’t recoil.
She looks at me, and her eyes are soft, clear, and completely unafraid. There is no hatred in them.
There is only love.
Just love.
I cum so hard my vision goes dark. My pants are ruined, and my seed is dripping all over my wrist and knuckles, but I sit in the wreckage of myself for a while, head tipped back, staring at the ceiling.
I let the fantasy dissolve because it has to.
That’s all it is and ever can be: a fantasy.
Jillian knows my name and my face and she hasn’t run yet, but that doesn’t mean she loves me.
She tolerates me, yes. Desires me, perhaps. If I wasn’t exactly what she accused me of being—greedy—then those things would be enough.
But they aren’t. They aren’t enough by a fucking long shot.
On the screen, Jillian shifts in her sleep and pulls the blanket tighter. I clean myself up with a handful of tissues from the box on my desk and drop them in the wastebasket. Then I buckle my belt, straighten my shirt, and settle back in the chair.
I watch her sleep until morning. The whole time I sit there, one thought goes round and round in my head like an airplane with nowhere to land.
I’m supposed to be the one in control.
… But I’m not in control of a single fucking thing anymore.
She is.