Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Kirill
I stared at the tablet on my desk. Boris had sent the encrypted file five minutes ago—no bullshit, just photos and a scan.
Genevie looked like shit in the shots.
She'd been crying.
Even through the pixelated blur, her despair hit hard. Below were the divorce papers, signed that morning.
She was free. Finally out from under Julian Dante, that psycho, and the marriage that sold her like cattle.
Single again.
My chest took a punch. I snatched the vodka bottle, skipped the glass, and chugged. The burn tore down my throat like fire.
Fuck.
God had a twisted sense of humor.
Three years. I'd watched her like a masochist, playing perfect wife to another guy. And now, the day she got loose—same damn day—I tied the knot.
Swapped rings with a woman I didn't love and spouted meaningless vows to a priest.
Fucking ironic.
The booze kicked in, unleashing the rage I'd bottled up.
If I'd known Julian would bail so fast, no way I'd have stepped into that church.
One ticket, and I'd jet to San Francisco. Show up, clean up his mess, tell Genevie I'd been waiting.
But another image crashed in.
The girl at the altar, eyes red-rimmed. In those silent seconds, she straightened her back and held back tears.
Damn it.
I slammed the bottle down with a thud.
It was done. Genevie chose her path; I chose mine. Three years ago, we split tracks. This was reality, not a fairy tale.
Like it or not, deal or no deal, Harper Evans was my wife now.
Legally, at least.
I sucked in a deep breath, letting the cold air douse the fire in my lungs. The urge to fly west faded, but the mood stayed volcanic.
Two soft knocks at the door.
"Sir."
Alfred.
"Speak."
"Madam Olga reminds you it's late. The missus awaits in your room."
My grip tightened on the bottle.
Olga knew about Genevie's divorce. Probably saw it coming before I did.
"Tell her I got it."
Footsteps faded.
I stood, yanking at my collar in frustration. I had a new wife now, fake or not, and some basics to handle.
At least tonight, I'd show up in that bed.
I strode out of the study.
Thick carpets swallowed my steps. At this hour, Orlov Manor felt like a tomb. Wall sconces cast dim yellow glows, stretching my shadow long over ancestor portraits—like they were watching this farce.
I shoved open the master bedroom doors. Only the bedside lamp glowed, soft and intimate.
A lump under the covers.
Harper huddled in, back to the door, still as stone.
Faking sleep.
Obvious—shoulders too rigid, breathing off, ear tip flushed pink.
I shrugged off my jacket and tossed it on a chair.
Truth was, I was wiped. I planned to ignore my so-called wife, shower, and crash. I got meetings tomorrow and backlog from the wedding—no time for games.
I undid the cufflinks, heading to the bed.
Lifting the covers, I braced for boring pajamas.
But the sight froze me.
"Fuck."
The word hissed through my teeth.
Under the light, Harper's lush, pale body lay bare. She wore black lace—if you could call that "wearing."
The lace strained against her overflowing tits, straps digging in, pushing them up into a deep cleavage, nipples dark and visible through the sheer fabric.
My throat bobbed, breaths turning heavy.
Worse below.
The "panties" were just strings, slung over her round, plump ass. That tiny lace scrap hid nothing—her creamy thighs and full cheeks exposed.
No man stayed calm here. My cock throbbed hard, veins bulging, straining against my pants, demanding I pin her down, rip it off, fill her up.
She'd done this on purpose. The timid caregiver by day, but this underneath.
"Miss Evans," I sneered. "How should I take this outfit?"
"No!" Harper whipped around, face crimson, hands fumbling to cover up. "Mr. Orlov, they took all my clothes and left me nothing but this."
She rushed the words, curling into a ball, awkward as hell.
I paused.
Seeing her panic cooled my anger a notch.
It clicked. That old fox had planned it—take away her stuff, leave the lingerie, force something tonight.
Cliché move.
But damn effective.
I eyed Harper, her skin flushed with shame, glistening with a sheen of sweat that made her glow.
"So that's it."
Misunderstanding cleared, but the fire raged. Maybe too much booze nuked my control. Her body, the getup—it shredded my restraint.
She was the type money could buy. So what if something happened?
She'd want it. That's why she was here.
I smirked, fingers hooking the thin strap on her shoulder, toying with it, brushing her warm skin on purpose.
"I think," I growled low, edged with danger, "Olga's got better taste than your friends. This suits you."
Harper shuddered hard. She bit her lip, eyes darting away, blush spreading down her neck.
The usual meek girl, now all shy and scared but stuck with it—it sparked an urge to rip through her facade.
Booze, perhaps, or frustration from Genevie, or maybe just her tempting body.
I yanked the covers off, killing her hiding spot.
"Mr. Orlov!" She yelped, grabbing for the edge.
I was faster. Snagged her wrists and pinned her to the mattress. I loomed over, eyes raking her slow—from flushed face to heaving chest, down to the see-through lace thong.
I spotted the damp patch in the middle.
Fuck.
She wanted this.
My dick went rock hard.
I leaned in closer, my breath hot against her ear, inhaling the faint floral scent mixed with her nervous sweat. Her body trembled beneath me, that full, soft figure squirming just enough to drive me wild.
I released one wrist but kept the other pinned above her head, my free hand trailing down her side, fingers grazing the curve of her waist, dipping into the dip of her hip. She gasped, arching slightly, but I could tell she was fighting it—part scared, part turned on.
"Shh," I murmured, my voice rough from the vodka and the heat building in my veins. "You put this on knowing what it does to a man. Or did Olga force you? Either way, you're wearing it now."
Her eyes widened, those big, innocent ones that didn't match the sinful lace clinging to her curves.
I smirked, sliding my hand lower, over the smooth expanse of her thigh, then back up, teasing the edge of the thin strap at her hip.
She bit her lip harder, a soft whimper escaping, and I felt her legs tense, trying to close but failing under my weight.
I shifted, pressing my knee between her thighs, forcing them apart just enough. My fingers danced along the lace, brushing the damp fabric right at her core. She was soaked already—hot and ready, the wet spot spreading as I pressed lightly, feeling the heat radiate through the sheer material.
"Fuck, look at you," I growled, circling my thumb over her clit through the lace, slow and deliberate. Her hips bucked involuntarily, a sharp moan tearing from her throat.
"K-Kirill," she whispered, voice shaky, but she didn't pull away. If anything, her body leaned into my touch, betraying her.
I chuckled low, dark amusement mixing with the lust. I hooked a finger under the strap of her thong, tugging it aside just enough to expose her glistening folds.
She was pink and swollen, slick with arousal, and the sight made my cock twitch painfully in my pants.
I traced a finger along her slit, collecting her wetness, then pushed in slowly, one knuckle deep.
She clenched around me instantly, tight and hot, her breath hitching.
"God, you're dripping," I muttered, adding a second finger, pumping them in and out with deliberate slowness, curling to hit that spot inside her that made her gasp and writhe.
Her free hand clutched at my shirt, nails digging in, as I worked her open, thumb still rubbing circles over her clit.
Her hips rocked against my hand, chasing the friction, soft cries spilling from her lips.
I watched her face—eyes squeezed shut, cheeks flushed, lips parted in ecstasy. It was intoxicating, seeing this shy little thing come undone under my touch.
I leaned down, capturing one of her lace-covered nipples in my mouth, sucking hard through the fabric, teeth grazing the sensitive peak.
She arched into me, moaning louder, her body trembling as I fingered her deeper, faster now, the wet sounds filling the room.
My other hand roamed up, cupping her breast, squeezing the soft flesh, rolling the nipple between my fingers until it hardened even more.
She was close—I could feel it in the way her walls fluttered around my fingers, her breath coming in short, desperate pants. I pulled back from her breast, lips brushing her skin as I trailed kisses down her neck, nipping at her collarbone.
"Come for me," I commanded, voice husky, thrusting my fingers harder, grinding my palm against her clit.
Her body tensed, then shattered. She cried out, back arching off the bed, pussy clenching rhythmically around my digits as waves of pleasure crashed through her. I didn't stop, drawing it out, milking every tremor until she collapsed, panting and spent.
But I wasn't done. Far from it. I withdrew my fingers, slick with her juices, and brought them to her lips. "Taste yourself," I ordered, and when she hesitated, I smeared them across her mouth, watching her tongue dart out instinctively.
Good girl.
I sat back, shedding my shirt in one fluid motion, then unbuckled my belt, shoving my pants down.
My cock sprang free, thick and veined, precum beading at the tip.
Her eyes widened at the sight, a mix of fear and hunger in them.
I positioned myself between her legs, rubbing the head against her soaked entrance, teasing her folds, coating myself in her wetness.
She whimpered, hips lifting toward me, needy despite the nerves. I gripped her thighs, spreading them wider, aligning myself perfectly. The tip nudged inside, just barely, and she gasped, hands fisting the sheets.
I paused there, savoring the moment, the heat of her enveloping me. Leaning down, I captured her gaze, my voice low and edged with that humiliating bite. "A wife I bought—means I get to use her however I damn well please."