Chapter 20
MAKSIM
We did it.
The words keep circling through my mind as Ivan drives us back to the motel, the Civic's headlights cutting through the pre-dawn darkness.
We did it. Boris's main distribution center is burning behind us, the flames visible in the rearview mirror as a faint orange glow against the grey sky.
Two hundred thousand in additional cash sits in the bag at my feet.
The laptop we already have contains enough evidence to destroy him ten times over.
Five days of raids. Five days of running and hiding and fighting side by side. And now it is over. Boris has nothing left to protect. His soldiers will scatter, his allies will distance themselves, and when Ivan presents the evidence to his father, the Pakhan will have no choice but to act.
We won.
The adrenaline is still singing through my veins when we reach the motel room.
The same stained carpet, the same questionable sheets, the same television that has never been turned on.
But the weight of fear that has hung over every moment of the past week is gone, replaced by something lighter. Something that feels almost like joy.
Ivan drops the bag on the desk and turns to face me. His clothes are dirty, his face streaked with soot from the fire we set to cover our exit, and there is a cut on his cheek that he has not acknowledged despite the blood that has dried along its edges.
He is beautiful. And he is mine.
I am on him before he can speak.
My mouth crashes into his, swallowing whatever words he was about to say.
This is not the careful exploration of the cabin, not the slow discovery of what we could be to each other.
This is adrenaline and triumph and five days of tension finally snapping.
I shove him back against the wall and he grunts into the kiss, his hands already tearing at my jacket.
"Bed," he manages between kisses. "Now."
We do not make it to the bed. Not at first.
I spin him around and press him face-first into the wall, my chest against his back, my cock already hard against his ass. He groans and pushes back into me, grinding, and the friction makes me see sparks.
"Impatient," I growl into his ear, my hands working his belt open from behind.
"We just burned down a warehouse. I have earned impatient."
I laugh against his neck and bite down on the muscle where it meets his shoulder.
He shudders, his palms flat against the wall, his head dropping forward.
I yank his pants down just far enough to free him, wrapping my hand around his cock from behind.
He is already hard, already leaking, and the feel of him hot and thick in my palm makes my own cock throb.
"Fuck—" He bucks into my fist. "Maksim—"
I stroke him rough and fast, no finesse, just raw friction.
My other hand shoves his shirt up so I can rake my nails down his back, leaving red lines that will mark him for days.
He arches into the pain, always surprising me with how much he wants it, how the heir to an empire craves being taken apart.
"Do you know what I thought about during every raid?" I twist my wrist on the upstroke and he chokes out a moan. "You. Underneath me. Making those sounds you make when I am inside you."
"Then stop talking and fuck me."
The command sends heat blazing through my veins.
I release him and spin him back around, lifting him.
His legs wrap around my waist automatically, his back against the wall, and I carry him to the bed like that—mouths fused together, his hands in my hair, both of us still half-dressed and desperate.
I drop him onto the mattress and strip. No patience for buttons—I tear my shirt over my head, kick off my boots, shove my pants down.
He watches with dark eyes, his own hand working his cock while I get naked, and the sight of him stroking himself while waiting for me makes something feral rise in my chest.
"On your stomach," I order.
He obeys instantly, flipping over, presenting himself. His ass is perfect—pale, unmarked, waiting. I grab the lube from the nightstand and slick my fingers, not bothering to warm it. He hisses when I press two fingers into him at once.
"You can take it," I say, working him open with rough efficiency. He is still loose from last night, his body remembering me, and he opens fast.
"I can take more than that." He looks over his shoulder, eyes blazing. "Stop treating me like I will break."
I add a third finger and curl them hard against his prostate. His whole body jerks and he buries his face in the pillow, muffling his shout. I do it again. Again. Watching his hands fist in the sheets, watching his hips grind down into the mattress seeking friction.
"Enough." I pull my fingers out and slick my cock. "I need to be inside you."
I do not give him time to respond. I line up and push in—one long, relentless slide until I am buried to the hilt. He takes it beautifully, his body yielding, a low groan spilling from his throat that sounds like relief.
I do not start slow. There is no slow left in me, not after five days of running and fighting and wanting.
I pull back and slam in, setting a brutal pace that makes the headboard crack against the wall.
The cheap motel bed protests with every thrust, springs squealing, and I do not care. Let the whole building hear.
Ivan braces himself on his forearms and shoves back to meet me, matching my rhythm, taking everything I give him. The sound of skin on skin fills the room, punctuated by his grunts and my harsh breathing. Sweat drips down my spine. My thighs burn with effort. I do not slow down.
"Harder," he demands. "I want to feel this tomorrow."
I grab his hips hard enough to bruise and give him what he wants.
Harder. Faster. Driving into him with everything the past week has built up in me—the fear, the adrenaline, the desperate relief that we are both still alive.
He drops to his elbows, changing the angle, and when I hit that spot inside him he howls.
"There—right there—fuck, Maksim—"
I pound that spot mercilessly. His hand shoots between his legs, fisting his cock, stroking himself in frantic counterpoint to my thrusts. I can feel him getting close from the way his body clenches, the way his rhythm stutters.
"Come," I order. "Now."
His whole body seizes. He comes with a ragged shout, spilling onto the sheets beneath him, his ass clamping down on my cock so tight it triggers my own release. I slam in one last time and hold there, pulsing into him, pleasure crashing through me in waves that leave me shaking.
I collapse on top of him, both of us breathing hard, slick with sweat. My cock is still inside him, softening slowly, and I cannot make myself pull out yet. I want to stay connected. I want to feel him around me for as long as possible.
"We won," he says into the pillow, his voice muffled and sated.
"We won." I press a kiss to his shoulder blade, tasting salt. "And that was my victory celebration."
He laughs, the vibration traveling through both our bodies. "If that is how you celebrate, I should win things more often."
Eventually I ease out of him and roll onto my side. He turns to face me, and for a moment we just look at each other. Filthy. Exhausted. Triumphant.
I pull him against my chest.
The aftermath is quiet.
We lie tangled together on the ruined sheets, our breathing slowly returning to normal.
Ivan's head rests on my chest, his fingers tracing idle patterns on my stomach.
I can feel his heartbeat against my ribs, gradually slowing from the frantic pace of moments ago.
The first grey light of dawn is creeping through the curtains, painting the room in soft shadows.
I feel complete. Settled in a way I have never felt before, not even at the cabin. We won. We survived. And the man in my arms chose me over everything else—over safety, over strategy, over the careful distance that should have protected us both.
"We should shower," Ivan murmurs against my skin. "We smell like smoke and sweat and sex."
"In a minute." I tighten my arm around his shoulders, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. "I am not ready to move yet."
He laughs softly and presses a kiss to my chest, right over my heart. "Neither am I."
The silence that follows is comfortable.
Familiar. The silence of two people who have moved past the need to fill every gap with words.
I could fall asleep like this, I realize.
Despite the exhaustion of the past week, despite the danger that still surrounds us, I could close my eyes and drift off with Ivan in my arms and feel safer than I have ever felt in my life.
The burner phone rings.
The sound is jarring, a sharp electronic trill that cuts through the peace like a blade. We both freeze, the warmth of the moment evaporating instantly.
No one has this number. No one except Lev, and Lev would not call unless something was very wrong.
Ivan pulls away from me and sits up, his expression shifting from sated to alert in the span of a heartbeat. He crosses to the desk where the phone is vibrating against the wood and looks at the screen.
"Unknown number."
"Do not answer."
"If someone has this number, they already know where we are. Not answering will only delay the inevitable."
Ivan stares at the phone. It continues to ring, the sound filling the small room with an urgency that feels deliberate. Designed to force a response.
He answers.
"Yes."
I cannot hear the voice on the other end, but I can see the effect it has on Ivan.
His face drains of color. His posture changes, the confident survivor of the past week collapsing into something smaller, something that looks almost like fear.
His shoulders curve inward. His chin drops fractionally.
The transformation is subtle but unmistakable.
He looks like a child again. A boy standing before a father whose approval he has never been certain of.