Chapter 4
Anya
I haven’t stopped thinking about his voice.
It’s not just what Lev read, but how he read it—calm, low, never theatrical.
The words were rough, violent even, but there was something else in them.
He didn’t look at me while he read. That unnerved me more than anything.
It was as though he knew the weight of being watched, and he wanted me to feel it alone.
I didn’t sleep. I lay in the bed, tangled in the sheets, fingers itching toward the book I still haven’t opened. I don’t know what’s worse—that he left me untouched again, or that I wanted him to stay.
I don’t know who I am in this house anymore. I only know I feel watched, not by guards or cameras, but by the man I’m not sure wants to touch me—or ruin me.
At nightfall, I light the fireplace myself. No maid comes and no dinner is sent.
Finally, I hear a single measured knock. The door opens and Lev steps inside. He doesn’t carry anything. Not a tray or a book, he brings only himself.
He remains quiet as he lowers himself into the chair across from me. I stay seated on the floor in front of the fire, legs pulled to my chest. I should be colder than I am. My skin’s flushed and my heart isn’t calm.
“You came without anything,” I say.
“I didn’t think I needed anything.”
I don’t respond. I should be used to him saying less than he could.
But tonight, I want more.
I turn toward him. My robe has slipped from one shoulder and I don’t fix it.
“Why didn’t you touch me last night?” I ask.
He doesn’t smile or flinch. He leans forward slightly with elbows on his knees and his eyes steady.
“Because I wanted to know if you’d ask.”
I breathe in, then out—carefully. “So that’s what this is? Some kind of test?”
“No.” His voice is even. “It’s permission. And proof you’re the one giving it.”
I blink up at him, surprised. My heart pounds faster, beating harder against my chest. His eyes are intense as they roam over my face.
I don’t move closer. There’s already too little space between us. I feel him in the warmth crawling up my legs, in the heavy pulse sitting low in my stomach. When he leans in, I meet him halfway.
Our mouths brush. Just slow heat, rising between us like the fire behind me. He kisses me once, then again, deeper this time, until I open to him without being asked.
I melt into him as he explores my mouth with his tongue, my body molding to his as I kiss him back just as eagerly. Our tongues dance together, exploring each other's mouths with hungry abandon.
I moan softly into his mouth, my body responding as he breaks the kiss, trailing kisses down my neck and across my collarbone.
Lev’s lips find mine again, softer this time. I don’t even remember closing my eyes. I just know I open them when he pulls back slightly.
His hand finds the tie at my waist. He pauses, waiting. As soon as I give him a nod, he loosens the knot.
Then he takes my wrist, gently, and guides it down—lower, between my legs, where the slip of my robe has already exposed the top of my thigh.
“Go slow,” he says quietly. “Feel it. Don’t fake it.”
His voice isn’t teasing. It’s reverent, almost careful. He doesn't touch me yet but watches.
“Let me hear what you sound like when you’re not afraid.”
His hand stays on my wrist, but he doesn’t guide the movement. He doesn’t need to as I’m already there.
My fingers slip beneath the edge of my robe. I’m slick—ready in a way I hadn’t realized until I touched myself. The heat blooming across my thighs has nothing to do with the fire behind me.
It’s him. It’s his voice and his stillness. The way he watches me like this is a confession.
“You’re already wet,” Lev speaks quietly, almost like it surprises him. But I can tell it doesn’t, he knew.
I breathe out and reach for his fingers. He seems surprised but obliges. His fingers wrap around mine, pressing them against my heat.
I gasp at the contact, my body jerking at the sudden intimacy. He makes a low noise in his throat, urging me on silently.
Together, we push two of my fingers inside me. I moan, my back arching as I experience the sensation of being filled. He adds another finger, stretching me wider. I whimper, my walls clenching around our combined digits.
I begin to move my fingers in and out, fucking myself slowly as he watches intently. His breath is hot on my cheek, his lips brushing against my ear.
"That's it," he rasps. "Finger yourself for me, Anya.
" I pick up the pace, sliding my fingers deeper inside with each thrust. The heel of my hand grinds against my clit, sending sparks of pleasure coursing through my veins.
Lev groans and I gasp as I feel the hardness of his cock pulsing against my thigh.
His free hand slides up, over my ribs, beneath the robe, finding the curve of my waist. His thumb presses gently into the dip just above my hipbone, steady, anchoring. It’s not even sexual. It’s possession with restraint.
I move my fingers in slow circles, too aware of how he watches my face in the firelight.
I keep going despite tension in my thighs. My head tips back against the edge of the chair and the muscles in my stomach flutter.
He leans closer, speaking near my ear, his breath hitting the shell of it, not quite touching.
“I’m not going to fuck you tonight,” he murmurs. “You’re not ready. But I want you to remember what it feels like when you break for me.”
I moan—quiet, breathy, and embarrassed by how quickly my body reacts to him.
He doesn’t mock it nor does he move away.
“Do you want more?” he asks.
“Yes.” The word slips out before I can think.
“Say it louder.”
“More.”
He brings his mouth to my neck, close enough that I feel the shape of his words against my skin.
“Keep touching yourself.”
I do.
He speaks while I move—what he wants to do to me, where he’ll taste me when I finally let him, how long he plans to make me beg before he takes anything.
“I could get you off like this every night,” he continues, just behind my ear. “Hands off. Voice only. Would that make you crazy?”
“Yes,” I whisper, thighs already shaking.
“You’d let me ruin your mind like that?”
“Yes.”
My body tightens—hips bucking into my own fingers now. I don’t care how loud I am anymore. My eyes are closed, but I know he’s watching. I want him to. I want him to see what he did to me without even laying a hand on the parts that ache the most.
"Just like that," he urges, his voice low and husky in my ear. "Keep going." I slide my fingers in and out of my pussy, coating them with my wetness.
I'm close, so close.
“You’re so fucking incredible, Anya,” his voice wraps around me.
His arm is still pressed against my clit, the muscle flexing with each beat of his heart. I can feel the power in him, the barely leashed control. It excites me beyond measure. "You're truly so goddamn sexy. Do you have any idea what you do to me?" I moan, riding his arm faster, chasing my release.
"You're gonna cum for me, aren't you?" his tone is almost a command. I nod frantically, unable to form words as my body tenses. "Cum for me, Anya. Cum all over my arm."
My orgasm hits me hard, my back arching off the bed as I scream his name. Wave after wave of pleasure crashes over me, leaving me boneless and spent. It isn’t quiet. It isn’t clean. It’s messy and wild and louder than I’ve ever been.
He eases his arm out from beneath me, bringing his hand to his mouth. This time, he sucks my fingers clean, moaning softly as he tastes my sweet nectar.
When I finally reopen my eyes, he’s still right there—sitting back on his heels now, hand on my knee.
He lifts his hand to my face, tucks my hair behind my ear, then kisses my forehead.
“I’ll leave you to sleep.” He stands with a smile.
My chest tightens. I don’t speak, I can’t. I reach out and touch his wrist.
That’s all it takes.
He doesn’t walk out. He sits back down beside me, close but not touching, and stays there until my breathing slows and my body stops shaking.
I drift off.