Chapter 18 ZAKHAR
ZAKHAR
I'm breathing hard. Too hard.
Victoria's lips are swollen from my kiss, her eyes dark and unfocused. Her hands are still fisted in my shirt.
I should step back. Should restore distance. Should remember all the reasons this is a catastrophically bad idea.
I don't move.
The anger that drove me to this room is still there, coiled tight in my chest. But it's transformed into something more dangerous than simple fury. Something that burns hotter and demands more than simple discipline.
I was furious when I found out she'd left the house.
After last night. After Ramiz Krasniqi's trap. After we barely escaped with our lives.
Maksim's orders were explicit. No one leaves without permission. Victoria especially stays inside until we understand the full scope of the threat.
I was in the middle of coordinating security upgrades when my phone buzzed. A text from Vitor.
Had to take Mrs. Severyn to Maison Lyra. Already on our way back. ETA 10 minutes.
A text. Not even a phone call. Coward.
I left the meeting without explanation. Went straight to the security room. Kicked everyone out. Locked the door.
Then I spent ten minutes staring at monitors, willing the SUV to appear. Every second stretched into eternity. Every shadow on the screens looked like a threat.
Fear is not an emotion I allow myself often. But watching those empty screens, knowing she was out there without proper protection, knowing that Ramiz Krasniqi is still breathing and planning and waiting for his moment to strike back…
Fear tasted like ash in my mouth.
Only when I saw the SUV enter the garage did the fear transmute into fury. Cold. Precise. The kind that demands consequences.
And now, with her body pressed against mine and her pulse racing beneath my hand still resting on her throat Now the fury is transforming again.
Into hunger I can't control and don't want to stop.
"You need to be taught how to obey," I say, voice rough.
Before she can respond, I spin her around. Press her forward until she's bent over the computer desk, palms flat against the surface, monitors casting blue light across her body.
I lift the skirt of her dress. Silk slides over my hands, revealing long legs and the curve of her ass wrapped in a thong so delicate it's barely there.
The sight nearly breaks me.
Black lace. Tiny. Covering almost nothing.
I almost come right there, just from looking.
"Zakhar, what are you—"
The slap cuts off her words. My palm connects with her ass, the sound sharp in the enclosed space.
"That's for leaving the house when you were explicitly told to stay put," I say.
Another slap. Harder this time. She gasps, and I watch the mark bloom across her skin.
"That's for giving me attitude in front of Vitor."
A third slap. Her body jolts forward, and a small sound escapes her throat. Not quite pain. More complicated than that.
"And that's for putting yourself in danger last night. For walking into Ramiz Krasniqi's office when you should have stayed safe with the other women."
I watch her carefully. Watch the way surprise gives way to resistance. Watch resistance dissolve into surrender.
Her breathing changes. Her body relaxes into the desk instead of fighting the position. And when I let my hand rest on her reddened skin, feeling the heat radiating through the thin lace, I smell it.
Arousal. Sharp and unmistakable.
She's wet. I can see it already soaking through the black lace. Can feel my own body responding, hardness straining against my pants.
I lift her from the desk in one smooth motion. Press her back against the wall of monitors, caging her in with my body. The screens flicker behind her, casting shifting shadows across her flushed face.
Then I kiss her again.
This time it's not just anger. It's possession. The assertion of dominance she clearly needs as much as I need to give it.
I grind against her, letting her feel exactly what she does to me. Letting her understand that this fury, this need, this desperate hunger, it's all her fault.
My hand circles her throat. Not squeezing. Not threatening. Just resting there. A reminder of who's in control now.
My other hand moves lower. Finds the delicate lace of her thong. Grips. Rips.
The fabric tears with a sound that's obscenely satisfying. I toss the ruined scrap aside and bring my fingers to her mouth.
"Make them wet," I command, voice barely recognizable as my own.
She's already dripping. I can feel it. But I want her spit on my fingers. Want her mouth on some part of me.
Her lips part. Her tongue slides out, tentative at first. Then bolder.
She sucks my fingers into her mouth, and I nearly lose my mind.
The wet heat. The way her tongue swirls around each digit. The eye contact she maintains while doing it, like she's challenging me even in surrender.
I pull my fingers from her mouth, wet and gleaming in the monitor light.
Then I find her clit.
She jerks against me, a sharp inhale cutting through the quiet hum of electronics. I start with slow circles, feeling how swollen she already is, how responsive to even the gentlest touch.
I kiss her while I work, my tongue mimicking the motion of my fingers. Slow circles. Building pressure. Drawing out the tension until she's shaking against me.
My hand leaves her throat. Moves up to the neckline of her dress. I yank the fabric down, taking her bra with it until one breast spills free.
I bite her nipple. Not gently. Hard enough that she cries out.
Then I suck. Roll the tight peak between my teeth while my fingers continue their work between her legs, pinching and circling her clit until her hips are moving in rhythm with my hand.
I take my two fingers, slick with her arousal, and press them just inside her entrance.
And stop. She's too tight.
She starts to shake. The tremors run through her whole body, and I know she's close. Right on the edge.
I press my thumb hard against her clit. Stroke inside her with those two fingers, feeling her clench around the invasion. Bite down on her nipple, pulling until she makes a sound that's half pain, half pleasure.
She comes.
Her whole body goes rigid, then dissolves into shudders I feel in my bones. She cries out, the sound breaking in the middle, and I swallow it with my kiss while she pulses around my fingers.
Beautiful. She's so fucking beautiful when she comes. And she likes a little pain with her pleasure.
I don't let her recover. Don't give her time to think or resist or remember all the reasons this shouldn't happen.
"One more," I say against her mouth. "Give me one more."
She shakes her head, eyes glazed and unfocused. "I can't. Zakhar, I—"
I slap her ass. The sound cracks through the room.
"You don't call the shots anymore," I tell her, letting my voice drop into pure command. "You'll do exactly what I say."
Then I slap between her legs. Not hard enough to hurt. Just enough to shock. To remind her that her body belongs to me right now.
She gasps, and I kiss her through it. Swallow the sound and the surprise and the renewed arousal I can already feel building.
I pick her up and press her back against the monitor wall, her legs wrapping around my waist instinctively.
My dick is still trapped in my pants, hard enough to be painful. I position myself so I'm grinding directly against her exposed pussy, the rough fabric of my pants rubbing against her slick heat.
"Make a mess of my pants," I order, voice harsh with need. "Come all over me like the greedy girl you are."
I thrust against her. Steady rhythm. Relentless pressure. Her clit drags against the fabric of my pants with every movement, and I can feel her wetness soaking through.
"Zakhar," she breathes.
"Come," I say again. "Now."
Her head falls back against the monitors. Her mouth opens on a silent cry. And then she's shaking again, coming hard, exactly like I told her to.
The feeling of her losing control. The knowledge that I did this to her. The sight of her face when she shatters—
It's too much.
I come in my pants like a teenager. The orgasm rips through me with unexpected violence, and I bury my face in her neck to muffle the sound I can't quite contain.
We're both gasping for air. Both trembling. Both holding onto each other like we're drowning and the other person is the only thing keeping us afloat.
I lower her feet back to the ground, but I don't step away. Can't step away. We breathe the same air in the blue glow of the monitors.
"Don't disobey me again," I whisper against her ear.
She's quiet for a moment. Then I feel her smile against my neck.
"Make me," she says, voice soft but defiant.
The words hang in the space between us, both challenge and promise.
I should step back. Should put distance between us before this goes even further than it already has.
I don't move.