Chapter 30 Ayla
Ayla
The stretch is perfect.
Every piercing scrapes inside me—slow fire, relentless pressure, each barbell popping past that sensitive ring of muscle until I feel him seated so deep I swear I taste him in my throat.
I can’t breathe.
Don’t want to.
His hands leave my wrists and I sit up, my hands gripping his shoulders when his clamp my hips, hard enough to bruise.
He doesn’t wait. Doesn’t ease in. Just pulls back almost all the way, letting me feel every single rung drag on the way out, then slams home again.
The desk groans under us. Something else falls, the keyboard, phone, doesn’t matter. The world narrows to this: him inside me, filling me, ruining me, owning me in the only way he knows how.
I rake my nails down his back, hard, drawing red lines across the skull tattoo, I can feel it. He hisses, thrusts harder, punishing. The piercings hit that spot inside me over and over—bright, electric, almost too much.
“Maksim—”
His name rips out of me—half plea, half curse.
He groans against my neck, teeth sinking in, the sharp pressure almost makes me come. “Say it again.”
“Maksim.”
I gasp his name louder.
He fucks me faster—deeper, desk rocking, wood creaking, everything on it sliding toward the edge. My legs tighten around his waist, heel digging into his ass, urging him harder.
I hate him.
Hate that I love how good he feels. How hard he fucks.
I need him.
I hate that I need him.
His hand slides between us. His fingers are merciless, he rubs rough circles on my clit that match the brutal snap of his hips.
Every thrust shoves me higher on the desk; the edge bites into my ass, bruises blooming under the pressure.
His sweat drips onto my chest, mixing with mine, salty and hot. The air smells like sex and his cologne. My thighs burn from clamping around him, and it only makes the coil in my belly tighten harder.
“Come,” he snarls against my ear. “Come on my cock, Beda. Squeeze every rung with that sweet cunt. Let me feel you break for me.”
I come. Hard. Overwhelming
My thighs tightening around him, nails sinking so deep I feel skin give under them. A cry tears out of me—raw, broken, nothing held back. My walls pulse around him, milking every pierced inch, dragging him deeper.
He howls out a laugh that sounds like pain and relief low, dark—then slams in one last time and comes. Hot. Deep.
So fucking deep.
Filling me until I feel it spill out, slick and obscene.
He doesn’t pull out.
Stays buried, chest heaving against mine, forehead pressed to my shoulder, breath ragged against my skin.
For a long second, neither of us moves. Then his arms band around me, tight, possessive, almost desperate. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t have to. I feel it anyway. The thing neither of us wants to name.
The thing that scares us both. The words he said the things I felt.
He’s not letting go.
He’s not letting go.
He pulls out slow.
My thighs tremble, slick with both of us. There’s an ache between my legs already—deep, throbbing, raw, like he carved himself into me and left the shape behind.
It hurts to clench around the emptiness he’s left. I hate how much I want it back.
His cum slips from me, his fingers catch it, sliding softly over my clit before he brings them to my lips and and I suck.
My eyes catch his and they’re are filled with fire, glinting like the piercings on his lips.
His taste mixed with mine salty and binding explode on my tongue. I swallow as he pulls his fingers from my lips.
Fuck. I can’t.
I can’t. This is a job.
He is a job.
I slide off the desk. He tucks himself away. I scramble tugging up my jeans, tangled in my panties. I want to scream. I want to cry. My chest is on fire. My throat squeezing in on itself.
His eyes are burning into me, but I don’t look at him. I pull my shirt on, straighten myself, zip up my jeans and pull open the office door.
If I’m a weapon, then I’m yours.
His voice echoes in my head. The way it cracked something open in me. I rush through VIP, heart pounding too loud in my ears. I need air. Space. Distance.
Halfway down the stairs I realize—I’m barefoot.
I didn’t grab my boots.
I almost laugh. Almost cry. Almost turn back.
I don’t.
The bass downstairs hits like a second heartbeat. Bodies everywhere. Sweat. Smoke. Color.
Blue lights flash across the dance floor.
Blue.
His hair was blue the first night I saw him. Blue that matched his eyes. Cold and clear and impossible to look away from.
Everything about him is blue.
His eyes.
His touch.
The way he consumes.
And everything else about him is gray.
His morals.
His rage.
His silence.
The way he can look at someone and decide if they live or die without blinking. I move into the crowd before I can think. Let them swallow me. The music crawls under my skin. I sway first, slow, unsure. Then deliberate. Letting it take me. Letting the rhythm shake the office off my bones.
Shake him off of me. His scent. His hands. The throb of him between my legs.
Gabriel’s voice echoes my through my peace.
The lies.
The information I’m supposed to get.
The trap I’m building around the man who just gave me his heart without knowing it.
I close my eyes.
For one second, I want to be free.
No missions. No brother.
No Pakhan. No weapon.
Just a girl dancing barefoot in a club.
Fingers slide around my waist. Firm. Certain. Possessive.
My breath catches before I even register why.
Maksim.
The scent of smoke and spice wraps around me. The heat of his chest presses to my back. His breath brushes my neck and my whole body goes still for half a second before melting into him.
Blue.
I feel blue.
Like I’ve stepped into an ocean and it’s closing over my head.
He moves with me without asking. Hips lining up with mine. Slow grind to the beat. His hands anchoring me like he’s afraid I’ll disappear.
I should pull away. I should remember everything at stake. Instead I lean back into him. He buries his face against my neck. Teeth grazing skin. Breath warm at my ear. The gray in him is always there. Always humming under the surface.
But with me, sometimes it ebbs.
His mouth brushes just beneath my ear.
Low. Rough.
“Stay.”
One word.
It wrecks me more than anything ever could.
Because it isn’t soft. It’s need.
My eyes open slowly.
The lights flash blue across us both. I turn just enough to look at him. Those icy eyes lock on mine. He looks like the ocean before a storm. Blue and endless and dangerous.
I’m lying to him.
I’m betraying him.
I crave him.
Any truth can drown me first.
His hand slides up my spine, pulling me flush against him.
Blue.
I’m covered in it.
And I don’t know if I want to swim or sink.
***
He’s dying his hair again.
The shower is running too hot, the kind of heat that turns the whole bathroom into a fogged-up, breathing thing. I pause in the doorway and watch him through the haze.
Shirtless. Jeans low on his hips like he couldn’t be bothered to finish getting dressed before deciding he needed to change himself.
His head is bent under the water, hair plastered to his skull, dark ink washing out and spiraling toward the drain.
It looks like he’s rinsing off a version of himself.
“Are you dying it black?” I ask.
No. Purple.”
“Purple?”
The water shuts off. He straightens, wipes his face with one hand, and the sound of it—water slapping tile, his breathing, the steady rush of steam, fills the room in the space where his words don’t.
He turns his head slightly, just enough to look at me through wet lashes.
“Purple,” he says.
Water slides down his torso in clean lines. He grabs a towel, drags it once over his hair, not bothering to dry it properly.
He moves like he owns the space between us. My eyes linger.
There’s a box on the counter, dye already opened, tube squeezed, the cap tossed like he didn’t care where it landed.
No gloves in sight.
“You’re not using gloves?” I ask.
His mouth twitches like he might laugh, but it doesn’t turn into anything warm. “Why would I?”
“Because your hands are going to be stained.”
He looks down at his fingers, then up at me. Flat. Unbothered.
“Good.”
That word lands like a door shutting.
He grabs the dye squeezes some on his hand and starts dragging it through with bare hands like he’s painting.
Purple slicks across his knuckles. Under his nails. Down his wrists.
It’s messy. It’s fast. It’s him. I watch for a second too long.
“Come here,” he says without looking at me.
I don’t move right away.
His eyes meet mine in the mirror—sharp and direct. A command without raising his voice.
I cross the tile, the air damp against my skin. When I reach his side, I see what he already knows: the back is a problem. He’s missing spots at the nape. The roots near the crown aren’t fully coated.
“You’re missing the back,” I say.
He makes a small sound, approval or annoyance, I can’t tell. He holds the dye out to me like he’s handing me something loaded.
I take it, but my gaze drops to the counter first.
I find the pair of gloves sit crumpled near the box, unused, like the idea of protecting himself was too polite to entertain.
I pick them up.
Maksim’s eyes flick to my hands. “No.”
“No?” I echo, already sliding one glove on.
He turns slightly, blocking me without touching me, just presence. “I said no.”
“They’re for me,” I say, voice steady even when my pulse isn’t. “Not for you.”
His gaze narrows.
I put the second glove on, snapping it at my wrist. The latex squeaks in the humid air. He stares at it like I’ve insulted him.
“You think I’m reckless,” he says.
It’s not a question. It’s not even accusation. It’s just… a thing he’s testing.
I lift my chin. “I think dye stains.”
His mouth tightens, then he looks away like the argument isn’t worth finishing.
“Do it,” he says.
Permission, like he’s giving me a knife and pretending he doesn’t care what I do with it.
I step behind him.