Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
Anya
Nervous excitement flutters in my belly.
It feels like a step toward intimacy, sharing space with him.
Even in my state of exhaustion, I’m aware of the details, how his room is an extension of his personality—structured.
Minimalist. Meticulously organized. Every element of the room is deliberate and precise, from the ebony wood to the steel and glass accents.
Even the high-quality linens in understated neutral shades.
There isn’t a single personal touch in the entire vast expanse. The whole room is austere, just like him, but the recessed lighting filters in warmth.
"Did you move my things in here?" I ask curiously when I note the white toothbrush, pink bathrobe, and slippers in here that he had in my room. I give him a curious look. “You knew I was coming."
"I expected you would eventually," he says. "But no. Those aren't the same. I had duplicates bought and brought in here." He shrugs. “In case you wanted to go back and forth.”
I open my mouth to respond but forget what I'm going to say because he’s…
undressing. My gaze lingers on his inked hands, captivated by the way they move—steady.
Deliberate. There’s something about them that makes my heart turn in my chest. He didn’t have those tats when he was a boy.
No, the tats and scars were the heralds of his moving into power, reminders of a journey he’s walked, shaped by pain and brutality.
Those hands have lived a lifetime of battles, and he isn’t yet thirty.
“Get ready for bed, Anya. You need sleep. We've had a long day."
It feels like I've had a long month.
Year?
Lifetime?
But he's right. I do need to get some sleep.
He shrugs out of his shirt, then folds it before he places it in a hamper with dirty clothes. I've never seen anybody fold clothes before tossing them into a hamper, but it’s on point for him.
Alright. If he can get undressed in front of me, I can play that game.
When I shrug out of the dress top that was my mother's, it feels as if I'm shedding a part of who I am—my childhood, the memory of my mother.
I chose a few of my favorite items from the clothing left in the closet before we left my former home.
This top… I can still remember she wore it the day we opened the bakery.
I pull it over my head, and just to appease him—and see if he notices—I fold it before I put it in the hamper.
His gaze grows molten.
“I’m keeping that.”
“Of course you are.”
I turn away, pretending I didn’t see the way his desire flares and his dick tents his pants. Ha.
Next, the zipper of my skirt. I drag it down, my back toward him. It's old-fashioned, I know, but it was also my mother's, so I love it.
I miss her. I miss her so damn much. I ball it up and toss it into the hamper.
He flinches.
Was it the sudden movement or the balled-up clothing? No wonder one of the first things he taught Stefan was to clean his room.
I stand in front of him, wearing my panties and a bra—pretty, well-fitted garments he’s obviously imagining taking off.
I swallow hard.
"We don't have time for this," he says in a low growl.
"Getting ready for bed?" I ask innocently. I am so tired. My eyes feel heavy, but adrenaline courses through me, reminding me of what happened earlier today. "Somewhere to go?"
He narrows his eyes on me and licks his lips.
"You know what I mean. I'm trying to be responsible, Anya, and not fuck you every minute of the day like I want to. But believe me when I tell you, I am far from having exorcised that demon."
A thrill courses through me. My nipples harden.
"I can help with that." My mouth waters when I look at the hard planes of muscle, the stunning ink. When I take a step closer, his Superman-like gaze pins me in place.
I shouldn't do this. But when I reach him, and he slides his hand to the small of my back before he cups my ass, I forget why.
His large, rough palms grip my ass, and I slide one leg up, anchoring myself over his hip.
When he buries his mouth in the nape of my neck, my head falls back, and I gasp for breath.
He laps at my skin with the flat of his tongue, and my clit throbs with the memory of where he placed his mouth earlier.
I throw my arms around his neck and squeeze, needing more pressure and less, more tongue and mouth—more, more…
He suckles my neck and bites my collarbone. I moan with pleasure. Palming my pussy, he presses with the heel of his hand. I grind against him, so close to climax. I feel like a teenager. What the actual hell is going on here?
"On the bed," he rasps. "Take those off and get on your hands and knees. Grab the headboard, Anya."
Oh god. That’ll make me vulnerable. Exposed.
Isn't this what I wanted?
I obediently take off my bra and panties, crawl onto the bed, and grab the headboard. I spread my legs, aware of him approaching me from behind.
"I know you're probably sore from earlier," he whispers.
I shrug, not wanting to admit that I am. Where has my sense of self-preservation gone?
He slowly takes off his glasses and folds them. Oh god, I’ve already come to learn that means he’s about to get busy. “Doesn't mean I can't put my fingers in you and finger-fuck you while I lick your pussy again, does it?"
My pulse skyrockets. I shake my head, my mouth dry. "Suppose not," I say, stifling a giggle.
"But first, your punishment, Anya."
"Wait a minute, I—"
He holds my lower back under his palm while he lifts the other one and slams it across the fullest part of my ass. I clench, but the pain quickly morphs into pleasure, and I already feel wet heat growing between my legs.
“You like it when I punish you.”
Heat floods my core. I let out a soft, desperate mewl.
“I want to fuck this pussy so bad. Not now. You need time to heal. I won’t hurt you, Anya.” He slaps my ass again, hard. “Except to do this.”
"I'm fine—" I whine, which earns me another hard spank.
"No. I'll make you come, baby, but with my fingers." I stifle a scream when he bends, bites the place he spanked, then licks it.
"Eventually, I'll take you here," Semyon says, pressing his thumb to my asshole. Oh my god. I am definitely not ready for that. "I need to ease you into that. I will," he promises.
"Open for me, baby. I want to taste you again. I want to bury my nose in your pussy and lick you until you scream."
I want that too.
I do what he says, and he arranges himself beneath me. My grip on the iron bar of his bed makes my knuckles white. I gasp for breath when he licks my clit and shoves his fingers into the slick heat of my pussy.
There's a hint of pain at first before he makes it better, rocking his fingers in and out of me.
I know he finds just the right spot when a wave of pleasure makes my clit ache.
He uses the slightest touch of his teeth on my sensitive flesh, teasing, licking and sucking before he pulls his mouth away, cups my ass in his hands, and says in a low rasp, "If you move away from me, I'll punish you by bringing you to the edge and leaving you there. Is that what you want, little Anya?"
I shake my head, my mouth dry. I want him. I want everything.
He licks my clit and plunges his fingers inside me. My hips jerk, my body riding the tension, but I don’t move my hands.
"Good girl," he growls. "That's my good girl."
He pumps his thick fingers in and out, his thumb teasing my asshole before he flicks my clit with his tongue.
"My fucking god, you taste divine." He groans, then plunges his tongue into my core, fucking me with it.
It feels so good. I don't want it to stop, but I can already feel myself hurtling toward release—quickly, uncontrollably.
"Beg me. Beg me to eat your pussy until you come on my face," he growls between my legs. "Beg me, Anya.”
"Please." My voice is a hoarse whisper. "Please—"
He’s still beneath me, still holding my ass in his palm.
"You can do better than that," he says in a low, teasing growl. "I know you can. Can't you, baby?"
“S-Semyon… make me come," I plead, trying harder. "I want you so badly. Please."
"Better. You're getting there."
He pumps into me again, fingers deep inside.
I climax, clenching hard around him. My clit throbs, and I'm coming so hard I can't breathe. I jerk my hips on his mouth, relishing the feel of teeth and stubble and tongue—harsh, soft, perfect. He licks and suckles me until I’m spent, absolutely wrung out with pleasure.
I collapse onto the bed, exhausted, as he lies beside me, still hard.
"I want you in me again," I whisper.
"Not now," he says. Rejection settles heavily across my chest, but I nod. I need to be good. I can do this.
But it doesn’t feel right. I like him inside me. I like knowing he wants me, that he needs me. I ache to be filled by him again.
I’ve always remembered his voice as cold, his eyes distant. But when he turns away from me now, his face is tortured. My vision blurs from exhaustion.
“Sleep, Anya. It’s time to go to sleep.”
My eyes are closed, but I’m still awake as I feel him moving around the room. Undressing me. Brushing my hair. A warm cloth between my legs. I fade into sleep.
The room is dark but familiar.
“Semyon, please.”
The words claw at my chest. My face pales as I suddenly see her. My mother. She's standing, gasping. I go to her, but I can’t reach her. No. No, this isn't how she died. Why is she here now? Why is this happening?
I reach for her, but the more I try to get to her, the farther away she moves. Semyon stands in the doorway, shaking his head.
"Help her!" I scream. "Help her!"
She clutches her chest and falls to the table, crying out to me.
"Anya… take care of everyone. Watch out for your brothers.”
She falls from the chair to the floor. I scream for Semyon again, but he doesn’t help. He turns and walks away without looking back.
I wake in a cold sweat, my heart racing. I scan the room in a panic. It takes me a minute to remember where I am.
Cold. Austere. Black and steel.
Semyon’s room.
My husband.
I'm alone.