Chapter 29
Izzy
“Three days.”
The words fall between us like stones. Sergei’s eyes burn into mine, dark with everything we haven’t said yet. His body pins me to the wall, all dangerous heat and controlled violence, and I can feel his heartbeat thundering against my chest.
“Three days thinking about you locked up. Wondering if Matthew had someone inside. Wondering if you were—” I can’t finish, can’t voice the nightmare scenarios that played in my head on an endless loop.
“I’m here.” His voice is rough, hands framing my face. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Then his mouth claims mine, and there’s no more talking. No more space for nightmares or grief or fear. Just this—desperate collision, three days apart collapsing into three seconds of hungry, consuming need.
I slide my hands under his shirt, my fingers tracing the hard planes of his stomach, the scars that tell stories I still haven’t heard. His muscles bunch under my touch, and he groans into my mouth, a low, guttural sound that makes heat pool low in my belly.
“Bed,” I gasp against his lips. “Now.”
He lifts me like I weigh nothing, my legs wrapping around his waist automatically. The wall’s cool against my back for a second before he’s moving, crossing the room in three long strides, and then I’m on the bed, bouncing on the mattress as he follows me down.
His weight is delicious, overwhelming, exactly what I’ve needed for three days of enforced distance. His hands slide under my shirt, pushing it up, calloused palms against my ribs, my stomach, my breasts.
“You wore my shirts when I was gone,” he murmurs against my throat, teeth scraping my pulse point.
“They smelled like you.” My hands are in his hair, pulling him closer. “Made me feel safe.”
“I’m here now.” His mouth trails lower, down my chest, his tongue circling my nipple through the lace of my bra. “You don’t need my shirts for protection.”
“I need you.”
That makes him pause. He lifts his head, grey eyes searching mine. For what, I don’t know. Proof that this is real? Evidence that I’m not just saying what he wants to hear?
He’ll find it. Because it’s true.
I need him. Not just his protection or his name or his connections. I need Sergei—the killer and the father, the monster and the man. The dangerous combination that’s become my addiction.
His mouth finds mine again, slower this time. Deeper. More possessive. His hands work my bra free, and his thumbs brush against my nipples, making me arch off the bed with a gasp.
His mouth trails down my stomach, his tongue dipping into my navel. My hips rock instinctively, seeking friction, seeking more, seeking everything I’ve been missing for seventy-two hours.
“I missed this,” I whisper as his fingers hook into the waistband of my pants. “Missed you.”
He strips my pants and underwear in one smooth movement, his eyes darkening as he takes in the sight of me—spread out on his bed, bare and wanting and completely his.
“Sergei—” My voice cracks when he settles between my thighs, his breath hot against my pussy. “Please—”
He licks me. One slow, deliberate stroke from entrance to clit, and I come apart. My hands fist in the sheets, my back arching off the bed, and he doesn’t stop. He works me with his mouth—tongue, lips, teeth—building me higher and higher, until I’m begging, incoherent, lost to sensation.
“Please, Sergei, I need—you—”
He slides two fingers inside me, curling them just right, and I shatter again. My thighs clamp around his head, my body convulsing as wave after wave of pleasure washes over me. He keeps going, relentless, until I’m sobbing his name, oversensitive and wrung out.
Only then does he rise over me, his body covering mine, his weight grounding me. I can feel his erection pressing against my thigh, hard and heavy and ready.
“Now,” I gasp, my hands sliding down his back to grip his ass. “I want you inside me. Now.”
He enters me in one slow, deep thrust, and we both groan. I’m so wet, so ready, and the feeling of him filling me, stretching me, is better than memory—better than fantasy, better than anything.
“Izzy.” My name is a prayer against my lips. “My Izzy.”
He starts to move, setting a rhythm that’s both familiar and brand-new. Hard thrusts followed by slow withdrawals. His body’s learning mine again. Mapping every response. My legs wrap around his waist. I pull him closer. Deeper. My hips rise to meet each stroke.
His hand slides between us, his thumb finding my clit, rubbing in tight circles that make me clench around him. The added stimulation pushes me toward another peak, the pressure building, the pleasure sharpening until it’s almost pain.
He has us changing position without breaking his rhythm. He flips us over so I’m on top, straddling him. He guides my hips, showing me how to move, how to take what I need. I ride him hard. My breasts bounce with each movement. My head’s thrown back as pleasure overwhelms me.
He sits up, his mouth finding my nipple, sucking hard. His hands grip my ass, controlling our movements, and I’m lost once again—completely undone by this man, this killer, this Wolf who’s somehow become my entire world.
“Come for me, Isabelle,” he demands against my skin. “I want to feel you.”
That’s all it takes. I shatter with a cry that’s half pleasure, half agony, my inner muscles milking his cock as I ride out the orgasm.
He doesn’t follow me yet, instead he moves us again until I’m on all fours on the bed, my ass in the air.
He kneels behind me, his hands gripping my hips as he thrusts into me from behind.
The new angle is intense. His cock hits that spot deep inside that makes me see stars.
He slaps my ass. The sharp sting sends a jolt of pleasure through me, then again, harder this time.
I cry out, my hands fisting in the sheets as he sets a punishing rhythm, driving into me over and over.
The sound of skin slapping skin fills the room.
It mingles with our ragged breaths and moans.
He grabs a fistful of my hair, pulling just enough to arch my back, changing the angle once more.
“Fuck,” he groans, his hips moving faster, his thrusts becoming erratic as he chases his own release. He’s getting close, and the knowledge sends a fresh wave of arousal through me.
He slams into me one last time and buries himself balls deep as he finds his release. I feel him pulse inside me. The hot flood of his cum triggers another smaller orgasm. My entire body’s trembling. I’m spent. Fully and utterly done.
We collapse onto the bed, a tangle of sweaty limbs and ragged breaths. Sergei pulls out of me with a groan, and I feel his cum trickling down my thighs.
For a long time, the only sound in the room is our breathing gradually returning to normal. Sergei’s arm is heavy across my waist, his face buried in my hair, his heartbeat a steady rhythm against my back.
I should move. Should clean up. Should check on Mila. But I can’t bring myself to break the connection, to lose the feeling of his body wrapped around mine, of his breath warm against my skin.
“You bailed me out.” His voice rumbles. “Two million dollars without blinking.”
“It’s just money.” My fingers trace the tattoos on his forearm. “You’re worth more.”
“To whom?”
To me. But the words stick in my throat. Too real. Too permanent. Too terrifying to voice when everything still feels like it could shatter.
Instead, I shift to face him. His eyes find mine in the darkness, searching.
“We need to talk about Matthew.”
He makes a sound between a laugh and a growl. “You want to talk about your uncle while you’re naked in my bed?”
“I want to talk about ending him before he ends us.” I press my palm to his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heart. “Wesley says Matthew’s planning something big. This week. He’s desperate.”
“Good. Desperate men make mistakes.”
“Desperate men also get reckless.” I prop myself up on one elbow. “What if he comes after Mila again? What if we can’t—”
His hand covers mine on his chest. “We can. We will. I won’t lose either of you.”
“Sergei—”
“Don’t.” His thumb traces my jaw. “Whatever you’re about to say that makes this complicated. Don’t. Not tonight.”
“But we need to—”
“Tomorrow.” He pulls me back against him, arms iron bands around my waist. “Tonight we sleep. Tomorrow we plan Matthew’s destruction. But tonight, you’re safe. Mila’s safe. That’s enough.”
Is it? I want to ask. But exhaustion crashes through me suddenly—three days of hypervigilance catching up. My eyes grow heavy against my will.
“Sleep, kotyonok.” His lips brush my temple. “I’ll keep watch.”
“You need sleep, too.”
“I’ll sleep when Matthew’s dead.”
The words should disturb me. Probably would have two months ago when I was still the polished Davenport heiress, who didn’t know what violence tasted like.
Now they just comfort me.
I close my eyes and let his heartbeat lull me. Behind my eyelids, I see Dad’s lighter—gold and scorched and gleaming. Waiting to ignite whatever comes next.
Soon, Matthew, I think as sleep takes me. Very soon.