Chapter 10 #3
"Your skin is so soft," he whispers.
I shiver.
"Are you cold?" His brow furrows.
Does he have no idea what he does to me?
"No." My voice is a husky whisper.
He circles me, staring as if I’m a work of art he’s trying to understand. "Do you know the rule of the Bratva?”
I lick my lips. “Which one?”
“We have to consummate our marriage."
Heat floods through me. I nod. "No, but I figured as much."
"Why?" he asks.
"Because I assumed that if you treat marriage as a transaction, then you would also treat… sex the same way. If you need to be married, then you need to have children."
"Smart girl. Are you a virgin?" His eyes darken, daring me to answer anything but yes.
I lick my lips and nod. "Of course I am."
It isn’t a lie. I don’t know when I would have had the time for anything else.
Dragging his knuckles across my collarbone, he whispers, "Then I’ll have to take my time with you."
I look at him curiously. "Are you?"
He shakes his head. "No. But I’ve never made love to a woman I… cared about."
Oh god.
"Why not?"
"Never took the time to bother figuring out how or why, but I suppose it has something to do with not having an emotional connection.” He shrugs. "We do."
This whole discussion is making me nervous.
“I…I know how it’s done."
"I would imagine so," he says, with a sound that’s almost a laugh. "I don’t mean sex, Anya. Anyone with access to the internet could figure that one out. I mean, I know how to make you enjoy it."
My breasts feel so heavy, my nipples taut. “You want a medal?”
Shaking his head, he only shrugs again. “No, Anya. Just your pleasure.” He leans in a little closer and ever so lightly presses his palm to my lower back. “It’s mine to give or keep.”
I try to toss my head. “Sure. Yeah. You have a plan, do you?”
“Mmm, of course,” he continues. "I do everything in my power to make you wet so that you’re ready. Then I take my time."
A beat passes between us. I wonder if he can hear how rapidly my heart is beating right now. I wonder if I can.
"Do you know what you like?" he asks.
I shake my head. "I mean, I’m human. I know where my fantasies go when I’m asleep."
"Right. Unfortunately, there’s a small matter of your punishment before we get to your pleasure, isn’t there?"
"If you insist on being a barbarian," I snap, refusing to allow my voice to waver.
"Barbarian?” his ice-blue eyes hint at amusement. Couldn’t be further from the truth. “You should know by now that I’m civilized to a fault, Anya. But I’m also a man of my word. This is my house, and it’s important my wife understands how things work under my roof. Wouldn’t you agree?”
"If you say so." My pulse quickens as tension crawls up my spine. I haven’t been punished since my childhood. What the hell is he planning?
He mentioned a spanking earlier, but the look in his eyes now… god, it’s like he’s waited for this moment, and now he’s savoring the tension before he uncorks the bottle and unleashes whatever he has planned.
“I’ll go easy on you this first time.” He tilts his head slightly, his expression inscrutable. “You’re my wife, after all.”
“How considerate.” My voice cracks under the strain. I watch as his lips curl into a subtle, knowing smile. He clears his throat and jerks his chin toward the bed.
“On all fours, Anya. Lean on your forearms, ass up. Thighs apart.” He runs his thumb along his lower lip and lowers his voice. “I won’t ask twice.”
Of course vulnerability is the first thing he demands. He wants control over me, wants to make sure this punishment gets him off.
But I’m not stupid enough to refuse him. Not with the stakes this high.
I move to the bed, swallowing my fear, and arrange myself as… directed.
I hear his footsteps approaching and feel him draw closer. “Good girl,” he says. “Just like that.”
I close my eyes as a rush of feelings floods me, feelings I can’t decipher.
I hate how my body responds, how the silence that follows stretches taut, a thin thread about to snap. How I feel him watching me, assessing, like a predator savoring the moment before the strike.
I wonder if he sees I’m shaved. If he notes the way my thighs jiggle and my belly wobbles. If he cares that my toenails are unpolished and my hair askew and disheveled.
The tension between us snaps and crackles, sparks flying. I tremble in spite of myself. My breathing is shallow.
When he doesn’t move immediately, the silence between us stretches.
When his hand grazes the curve of my hip—barely a whisper of a touch—and shockwaves course through me. I feel his heat, the deliberate control behind every move, and I shiver.
“You’re trembling,” he observes, his voice low and smooth, like the edge of a knife. “Are you afraid, Anya?”
I want to snap back at him, to deny him the satisfaction of seeing the effect he has on me. But I can’t. I’m not just afraid—I’m undone. He strips away my defenses with every word, every look, leaving me raw and exposed.
“I don’t know,” I manage, my voice barely above a whisper.
I feel the tears before I realize they’re falling. They slip silently down my cheeks, splashing my hands.
He leans down, his voice impossibly close to my ear, and when he speaks, it’s softer, almost coaxing. “Good,” he murmurs. “Fear keeps you sharp. But it’s obedience, Anya, that earns rewards.”
Before I can process his words, his hand slams down sharply on my bare ass. The sound is deafening in the quiet, the sting radiating across my skin, hot and bright. My breath hitches, and I let out a strangled gasp—not from pain, but from the unexpected wave of pleasure that surges through me.
My core clenches, and I hate the way my body reacts to him.
“You deserve a lot more than that,” he says, his voice a dark purr. “To remind you who’s in charge.” His hand doesn’t leave my skin. Instead, his fingers trail lazily over the spot he struck, soothing the sting in a way that only makes the ache inside me worse.
“You liked that,” he says, and it’s not a question. His voice is full of dark amusement, and I want to deny it, to fight him, but I can’t.
I bury my face in the bed, trying to hide from the shame and vulnerability.
“Look at me.”
Reluctantly, I meet his eyes.
They are sharp, unreadable, but his gaze burns into me. “I said, look at me, Anya.”
“Do you want me to stop?” he asks, his voice a dangerous whisper, and I know it’s not a question he asks lightly. He doesn’t want to. And a part of him doesn’t want to continue without my say.
Oh god.
I swallow hard, my throat dry, and shake my head.
“Good girl,” he repeats.
My eyes flutter closed at the feel of his warm hand slipping between my thighs, his fingers grazing me where I’m already embarrassingly wet. I gasp, my hips jerking involuntarily at the contact.
“Jesus,” he groans, his voice tinged with approval. “You’re soaked.”
His fingers slide over me again, teasing, never quite giving me what I want. It’s maddening.
“Do you like this?” he asks, his lips brushing against the curve of my ear.
I nod, unable to speak, my body betraying every ounce of resistance I thought I had.
Chuckling softly, his fingers press harder, drawing a low moan from my throat before he pulls away entirely.
“Then maybe this will be your punishment, Anya,” he says, straightening to his full height. “To want but not have. To feel what I can do to you and know it’s mine to give—or take away.”
I don’t know how I feel about this. Part of me wants to tell him to stop, that I don’t want his touch. But I couldn’t do that right now if I tried. Because I do want his touch. Because I’ve wanted more than this, more from him, for so long—even back when it was wrong.
And now I’m his wife.
I try to bring myself back to the present, to tell myself that this isn’t what I need, that it isn’t what I want. But it isn’t working. My body is desperate for relief. Desperate for him.
Why do I feel this storm of emotions—anger, confusion, and need colliding inside me?
“This is for storming into my office and disrespecting me in front of my men,” he growls, his voice low and dangerous, before his hand comes down sharply against the full curve of my ass. I inhale at the sting but stay in place, unmoving.