Chapter 23
Maksim
The house is too quiet.
I hate quiet.
Kostya’s laugh is still echoing in my head. The way he dipped her. The way she didn’t resist. The way her hand was in his.
I drag a hand over my jaw and stare at myself in the mirror by the entryway. Black t-shirt. Fitted. Stretching over muscle and ink. My piercings catch the light when I tilt my head. I look exactly like I always do.
So why the fuck does it feel different?
Behind me, the couch shifts.
I catch her in the reflection, Ayla drops herself sprawled across my couch like she owns it. One arm thrown over the back. Legs stretched out. Unbothered.
Too unbothered.
“You’re brooding,” she says lazily.
“I’m thinking.”
“That’s worse.”
My fingers smooth over my shirt collar. It doesn’t need smoothing. Nothing does. I just need something to fix. Something to correct.
She hums.
And I see it.
Her eyes drag down my back in the mirror. Slow. Assessing. Amused. I meet her gaze through the glass.
“What?”
She tilts her head. “Nothing.”
Bullshit.
I shift my stance. Boots heavy against the floor.
Her lips twitch.
“You know,” she adds, voice syrup-sweet, “your brother’s taller than I expected.”
The air changes.
I still.
The mirror reflects everything; the way my shoulders square. The way my jaw tightens. The way her eyes sharpen because she sees it.
She sees it bothers me.
“That supposed to mean something?” I ask evenly.
She shrugs. “Just an observation.”
Silence stretches.
She swings one leg lazily over the other. Bare legs catching the light.
“You’re what—six foot?” she continues.
I don’t answer.
Her smile widens.
“Compact,” she says thoughtfully. “Efficient.”
My molars grind.
She rolls onto her side, propping her head up with her hand, studying me like I’m entertainment.
“Short king energy,” she decides.
My fingers curl into fists. I turn slowly.
“What the fuck did you just call me?”
Her smirk is sharp enough to cut.
I blink slowly. She blinks back. Innocent as sin.
“Short. King.”
My mouth twitches despite myself. “You’re really asking to be fucked stupid, huh?”
“Think you can do that?” she hums, stretching lazily across the leather like it’s her personal playground. “If your dick matches your height, I don’t know.”
I’m on her in a heartbeat.
She’s already laughing—low, wicked, as I haul her down the couch by the hips, her knees parting around me with a soft gasp.
I wedge between her thighs, pinning her under my weight, one hand braced beside her head, the other fisting the hem of her shirt and shoving it up high, bunching it under her arms, exposing black lace.
Fuck, she’s annoyingly hot.
I hook two fingers in the cup and yank the bra down roughly. Her tits spill free, nipples already tight from the cool air and the way she’s been watching me all day. I don’t waste time—mouth on one, hard suck, teeth grazing just enough to make her arch.
“Fuck, Maksim—”
“That’s right.” I switch to the other, tongue flicking the peak while my hand slides down, palming her through her shorts. “Better say my name when I ruin that tight cunt you love to keep away from me.”
“I haven’t—”
I don’t let her finish. My fingers are at the waistband of her denim shorts—tight, dark-wash, the kind that hug her ass like they were painted on.
Exactly why I bought them; the button pops open easy under my thumb, zipper already half-down from the way she’s been squirming.
I drag them over her hips with her black panties tangled inside, so much better than what she wore before.
She looks exactly how I like her.
I shake the thought—no time for finesse, I shove them down just past her thighs. She kicks them the rest of the way off with her shoes in an impatient huff, legs spreading wider for me.
I reach back one-handed, fist the back of my shirt between my shoulder blades and yank it over my head in one rough pull. It hits the floor somewhere behind the couch. My jeans are next; shoved low enough to free my cock.
The ladder catches the light through the window, silver bars gleaming.
Her eyes drop to it. Darken. That wicked little spark flares again. “Oh, didn’t know you had that,” she murmurs.
I grip the base, drag the pierced head along her slit—slow, teasing the first barbell against her clit. She hisses, hips jerking.
“Still smirking?” I murmur, voice gravel.
She bites her lip. “Waiting for you to deliver.”
I push in. The first rung catching at her entrance. Her breath hitches.
Then the second. She clenches instinctively around the metal and I nearly black out.
“Blyad,” I bite out, forearms braced on either side of her head, every muscle locked. “Don’t. Fucking. Move.”
She freezes for half a second. Then deliberately clenches again, slow and mean.
I shudder hard. “Beda… I swear to God, if you keep doing that.”
She laughs, breathless. “What, you came already?”
“No.” I drag in air. “But if you keep milking me like a greedy little brat, I will.”
“Careful Maksim, I might think you like me.”
My eyes snap open. “You think this is funny?”
“A little.”
I slam home in one brutal thrust; all the way, every piercing dragging inside her, stretching her open. Her back bows off the leather, legs snapping around my waist, nails raking down my back hard enough to leave marks.
“You’re not laughing now,” I snarl.
She moans—deep, broken, then bites her lip and forces out, “Still… smirking though.”
I wrap my hand around her throat, pinning her gaze to mine. “You are fucking menace, Beda.”
I move. Slow at first, on purpose. Pulling out almost all the way so she feels every single barbell catch and drag on the way back in. Her walls flutter around each one. Her thighs tremble.
Fuck, she’s an experience.
“Harder,” she demands, voice hoarse.
I grin against her ear. “You’re gonna regret saying that.”
I hook her knees over my elbows, folding her open, and fuck her into the cushions—deep, punishing, the leather creaking under us with every snap of my hips. Skin slapping. Wet sounds obscene in the quiet room. Her moans turn sharp, needy. Those breathy fucking sounds.
“This pussy’s mine now.” I bite her shoulder, hard enough to mark. “You hear me?”
She gasps and wraps her arms around my neck, nails raking through my hair, digging into my scalp.
She whispers hot against my mouth, “Short king’s got a throne now, huh?”
I choke on a laugh despite myself. “You’re fucking impossible.”
“You like it.”
I drive harder. Deeper. “I do.”
Our foreheads press together; sweat-slick, breaths mingling. That’s when it hits.
Not the clench. Not the moans. Not my cock buried so deep I feel her heartbeat around me.
It’s her breath, warm, soft, and ghosting over my lips. That smile. Not smug or sharp, soft. Open.
There.
That marshmallow scent fanning over me with every thrust.
My chest tightens—sharp, fast, unwelcome.
No.
My thrusts falter. Something inside is slamming the brakes.
What the fuck is this feeling?
I pull back a fraction, jaw locked, fury rising at myself. This is supposed to be physical. Empty. A release. Not this quiet pressure, this need to stay buried here with her eyes locked on mine like it means something.
I’m just starting to get myself back under control when her voice cuts through it.
“More.” The word hits me wrong—in the worst way.
I hate how much I like that she says it. Hate that it isn’t a challenge or a taunt.
It’s a want.
Her hands slide from my hair down my arm, nails biting just enough to remind me she’s here, present, asking. Not daring me. Not fighting me.
Choosing.
There it is again. Sharp in my chest.
Enough. I don’t slow again. I don’t think.
I drive it forward. I fuck her ruthless now—focused, precise, chasing the edge before it turns into more. Before I let myself drown in the way her breath stutters, the way her body yields without a fight. Every thrust built to end this before it breaks something neither of us can fix.
She comes fast.
One second she’s panting under me, the next; she shatters.
Her back arches off the couch, body straining, mouth falling open on a sharp, gutted sound like she’s been holding it in for years. A gasp, broken and raw, like the pleasure wrecked her before she could give it permission.
And her cunt?
Fuck me.
She clamps around me so tight, it’s like her body’s trying to brand me from the inside out. Like she’s desperate to keep me. Own me.
And maybe she does. For a second.
Because I don’t stop watching her.
Can’t.
My arms lock, breath caught, because I’m staring at her; at her face, and something inside me turns to glass and spiderwebs.
Eyes soft. Lips swollen. Cheeks flushed.
Destroyed.
Beautiful.
Mine.
The thought hits before I can stop it.
She’s mine.
I snap.
My thrusts lose precision. I grab her hips and slam in once and then I’m gone. Everything inside me uncoils in a brutal surge of heat and teeth and helpless fucking need.
I come with a sound I’ve never made before—low, guttural, dragged from somewhere deep in my chest.
Fuck pleasure.
Fuck release.
This isn’t that. It’s salvation.
In her. In this.
In the way her body fucking owns me when it breaks.
And that’s a problem. That’s a fucking problem. I’m the Pakhan of the Bratva. I don’t seek salvation in anyone. I don’t feel.
I command.
And yet, here I am; hovering inside her, cock still twitching, forehead pressed to hers like I need it. Marshmallow, sex and sweat clings to my skin like evidence I can’t scrub off.
Like I want it to stay.
No.
No.
I force myself to pull out even though every instinct screams to stay buried inside her. To keep the connection. To let it mean something.
I don’t.
I can’t.
If I let myself stay, I’ll fucking fall. And I don’t fall. Not for anyone.
I tuck myself away with harsh, clipped movements, already reaching for my shirt like I didn’t just lose every inch of control I have.
“Let’s go,” I snap, stepping back. “I hate this house. We’ve got things to do.”
She sits up slow, confusion ghosting across her face—soft, subtle. Like she saw something in me I didn’t mean to show. And she’s right. She did.
She fucking did.
But she won’t see it again.
“Bathroom?” she asks, too casual.
I nod. “Down the hall.”
She moves. Smooth. Efficient. Gathering her clothes like nothing happened. And I just stand there, jaw locked, staring at the wall.
Not at her.
Not at the cushion still dented with her shape.
Not at the empty space where I almost let myself belong to someone.
Where I almost let her own me.