10. Crossing LinesMila
Ten
Crossing Lines
Mila
I wake to the brush of fingers on my cheek. For a moment, I think it’s a dream, one of those fantasies that feels so vivid, you’re almost sad to wake up from it. But then I open my eyes, and my heart hammers against my ribs, a silent scream rising as I see him leaning over me, his eyes dark and intense, too close, too real. His hand covers my mouth before I can make a sound. I’m forced to stare up at him, our breaths crashing together.
He’s pressed against me, one leg braced between mine, his chest heavy against me, and I can feel everything. Every hard inch of him reminding me that I’m pinned under him, trapped beneath his weight, and he’s here. Somehow, impossibly, he’s here.
The night feels colder around us, and it’s like something dark and forbidden weaved itself into my skin. He leans down, his lips grazing my ear, hot breath ghosting along my skin. A shiver cuts through me, tearing right to my core. Oh, God. Oh, Jesus. This is insane, and yet I’m helpless, staring up at him, frozen under the strength of him.
“I came to tell you—I opened the rest of those gifts.” He talks like he is savoring every word. “And I loved them, Mila,” he hisses, biting my ear, and I melt.
His hand stills on my face, fingers brushing over my jaw. “I’m going to take my hand away now, and you’re not going to make a sound. Not one, understand?” The heat of his voice is pooling somewhere too dangerous to name.
I nod, breathing out slowly through my nose. When he finally pulls his hand away, I’m caught in that predatory look he’s giving me, half expectant, half feral. I force out, “You know…you could’ve just texted me.”
He laughs. Then, I feel his lips move across my neck, placing open mouth kisses all over. My breath catches in my throat. What is happening right now?
“What are you doing?” I breathe out, almost a plea.
He hums in response, “Nothing.”
But the moment is anything but nothing. His mouth trails further down, brushing over my collarbone. His hand slides up, fingers tracing the line of my jaw with a possessive touch.
My breath hitches, and I can feel my pulse racing in my throat, erratic and wild. “If my father sees us…” I begin, but my words trail off, choked by the fear that suddenly wraps around my chest like a vice.
“You only answer to me,” he growls, his voice thick with possessiveness, like a feral animal marking its territory. “You will only fear me,”
“Ya budu yedinstvennym muzhchinoy, kotoryy kosnetsya tebya. I ty budesh’ boyat’sya tol’ko menya, devotchka.”
The words that I don’t understand burn through me like molten fire, searing into my skin. I can’t look away from him, his eyes holding me in place. His grip tightens on my chin, forcing me to stay right there. I’m paralyzed.
“You’re mine,” he says. “Only mine.”
“Friends don’t act like this,” I retort.
His thumb traces the curve of my stomach through the fabric of my shirt. I’ve fantasized about this for so long, dreamed of this, prayed for this… It’s happening so fast, yet so slowly at the same time. Lord knows, I can’t find the words to explain it.
“We aren’t friends, are we?” he asks, but it’s as though it’s a statement rather than a question. “We are best friends.”
His grip tightens ever so slightly on my skin, making it clear that this isn’t just a conversation, it’s a demand. The thought of trying to push him away seems distant, almost impossible. “You don’t—” I start, but the words die in my throat when I feel his fingers dip lower, just under the hem of my shirt, brushing over the soft skin of my stomach.
“Say that you’re mine,” he growls, his teeth sinking into my cheek.
I open my mouth to protest, but nothing comes out. The way he’s looking at me—like I’m the only thing that matters—makes the words catch in my throat. And I can’t help but whisper, barely audible, “I’m yours.” It’s like I’m giving in, but I don’t even know what I’m giving into.
His fingers slip even lower, caressing the edge of my lace panties. My brain haywires. I can’t breathe, can’t think. My mind races, trying to make sense of it all. What is this? What does this mean? Why am I still here, letting him touch me like this?
He suddenly pulls the lace aside, and the gasp that comes out of me is foreign to my own ears. “Did you keep this untouched for me, Kroshka ?” He demands, a warning clear in his tone.
I’m pissed. How dare he? How the hell dare he ask me that? After everything—after all the women he’s had, all the ones with legs for days and inflatable balloons for boobs, the ones who’ve probably begged for his touch, and he has the audacity to ask me if I’m untouched? Me?
A “Fuck you” slips out of my mouth, and it tastes poisonous on my tongue. I’m nothing but a mess of contradictions. I’ve never cursed before—not in front of anyone, not alone even.
He’s breaking all the rules I’ve lived by, pushing me to do things I never thought I would. I’ve never done anything to disappoint my father. That’s always been my line, the one thing I’d never cross. But here I am, with Rafael’s hand on my pussy. Pussy , what a weird word.
“Are you serious right now?” I hiss, my voice tight with anger. “After all the women you’ve had, all those—those desperate bimbos throwing themselves at you, and now you’re asking me if I’m untouched?” My teeth grind together. “What, do you think I’m just some kind of fucking virgin waiting for you to break me in?”
His body is tense, vibrating with anger. I can feel it in the air between us, a crackling charge of fury that makes my skin prickle. “Tread really fucking carefully here, Kroshka ,” he warns roughly.
I can’t even look at him. My gaze shifts to the floor, to the side, anywhere but into those eyes of his that seem to see through every damn wall I’ve built around myself. I want to run, to escape him and all this mess he’s dragging me into.
But then, he’s there, grabbing my chin in a vice-like grip, forcing me to look at him. His eyes are scorching, like flames licking over my skin. “Yes, it’s untouched,” I spit. “Because all I could ever think of was you. While you were out there, touching women that don’t even look anything like me.”
His body slowly relaxes, the tension draining out of him. He exhales a deep, long breath, almost like he’s finally letting go of something that’s been holding him back. His hand slides from my chin, and for the first time tonight, his touch feels almost tender, almost gentle as he brushes a lock of hair from my face.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, and I feel a strange shiver run through me at the words, at the softness of them that doesn’t match the fury that was there just moments ago. He kisses the side of my forehead.
“I purposely went for girls who looked nothing like you,” he confesses. “I thought if I could replace you, if I could touch someone else, maybe I’d forget you. Forget this… whatever the hell this is between us.”
I don’t know what to say to that. He’s still looking at me, but now it’s like he’s seeing me for the first time, really seeing me. “But nothing ever compares to you,” he adds. “No one, nothing, even comes close to you. You’re in my head, Kroshka . I can’t get you out. I can’t stop wanting you.”
I feel my heart squeeze at his words, finally we are getting somewhere. “I wanted to forget, but every time, they just reminded me of how much I crave you. How much I need you. You’re the only one who’s ever been real. Everything else? Just distractions.”
I don’t know what to say to him, what to ask of him… Do I beg him to give us a shot? To let us try being us again. I know how pathetic this is of me, how I am so tangled in him that I can’t see reason, but he deserves it. He deserves the effort. I know him, not the version that he dresses himself up as, I know the real him. The one that is caring, that is sweet, and he’s mixed in with a delicious darkness that is addicting. He’s addicting, and I want him to be mine.
I forgot all about his hands that pulled my panties aside, but I am reminded of them again when he caresses my pussy. Up and down, up and down, up and down until it feels like I might die if he doesn’t pleasure me, his touch is too light.
“Good girls deserve rewards,” he says, his words sliding over me like velvet.
“You’ve been good, Kroshka,” he murmurs like a promise. “You’ve earned it.”
The moment his lips finally meet mine, everything shifts. Time seems to stop. His hand moves to the back of my neck, pulling me in closer. His lips are rough, not gentle, as if he’s testing me, pushing me to give in, to let him take control.
I part my lips instinctively, and he deepens the kiss, his tongue brushing against mine. It’s not soft, not tender—there’s no sweetness in it. It’s raw, hungry, and a little bit bruising. He kisses me like he owns me, like he’s been waiting for this moment for far too long.
I can taste the faint hint of cigarette smoke on his lips, mixed with the taste of him. It’s delicious. The kiss is like fire, it burns. I don’t want it to end.
I feel my pussy soaking wet, and he thrusts a finger in. I let out a moan that he hushes with another kiss. His thumb rubs circles on my clit, and it feels like I’m in heaven.
“Good girl, good girl,” He whispers against my mouth before biting my bottom lip. Another finger joins, and he does a come here motion while his thumb rubs faster circles on my pearl.
I cum so hard that I see stars. His palm covers my mouth again, and I melt into the bed. I watch as he puts the fingers that were inside of me into his mouth and sucks on them, I’m incinerating. He makes me feel things I never thought I’d feel—things I shouldn’t feel.
He pulls his palm from my mouth and I finally take a breath. But it’s like the orgasm serves as a truth serum. I don’t mean to say it, but it slips out. “I love you.”
The moment feels like it’s been doused with cold water. Everything inside me stills. His face hardens, and I can see the shift in him, it’s like something snaps inside.
“I don’t,” he spits out roughly, and everything I was starting to believe in dies. All that rawness, all that need, it suddenly feels pointless.
“Mila—”
I can’t hear him. I can’t listen. I turn my back to him, burying my face into the pillow. “I don’t want to hear it,” I force out, the words thick with the disgust I’m feeling toward myself.
He tries again, but I can’t listen. I just grab the pillow, screeching into it, blocking everything out.
I hear him move, and when I peek through my fingers, he’s at the window, about to open it. But then, he stops.
“Best friends?” he whispers, and I feel that horrible, familiar ache rise again. I shake my head, and the tears fall freely, drenching the pillow beneath me. I don’t even care anymore.
“Friends?” he asks desperately, like he’s trying to get something out of me—like he needs it.
I look at him, my vision blurry with tears, and I feel this sudden rage inside of me. The words I never thought I’d say come out like acid. “Nothing,” I spit at him, like I’m trying to burn him with my words. I hate him. I hate the way he’s made me feel—like I’m just another slut to him.
“ Chert voz’mi ,” he mutters. I don’t even know what that means. And then, just like that, he turns and climbs out of the window.
I want to scream. I want to tear something apart. He’s gone, and I hate that I still care. I hate that a part of me still wants him to come back, to want me in the way I’ve wanted him. But I know he doesn’t. He never did. Touching me didn’t mean anything to him. I am just like all his other arm candy.
The bastard never even wanted to be my friend. He wanted to own me. To take me, whenever, and however he felt like it. He doesn’t care about me.
At least I tried . I whisper it to myself, but the words taste like shit. They don’t mean anything. I can’t even look at myself anymore.
I curl up into a ball, my body shaking, but it’s not from the cold. It’s from everything inside me breaking.
“At least I tried,” I whisper again, but this time, I don’t even believe myself.