Chapter 31 Maksim #2
My jaw clenches so hard I feel the grind in my teeth. She’s still smirking up at me, that razor-edge curve to her lips like she’s won something—won me, maybe, or at least cracked the facade I’ve built thicker than these rooftop walls.
I roll us until her body is under mine is all heat and defiance, pressed into the gravel with my weight holding her down, but she’s not fighting. Not really.
Her laughter fades into shallow breaths, her chest rising against mine, and fuck, I can feel her pulse racing where my hand grips her shoulder.
She matters.
The words echo in my skull like a gunshot in an empty room. Mine in a way I can’t undo, in a way that sinks deeper, hooks into the parts of me I thought were dead long ago.
The panic from watching her lean back over that edge hasn’t faded; it’s twisted into something hotter, hungrier. Like I need to bury myself in her to prove she’s still here, still breathing, still mine.
I crash my mouth down on hers.
Hard. Possessive. My lips bruise against hers, tongue invading like I’m claiming territory I’ve already mapped but need to remind myself of.
She gasps into it, her hands fisting my shirt, pulling me closer instead of pushing away.
Her taste floods me—sweet and sharp, like the edge of a knife dipped in honey—and I groan low in my throat, the sound vibrating between us.
My hands move without thought, one sliding up her thigh, feeling the rough weave of those fishnets under my palm.
They snag on my calluses, and I want to rip them to shreds. The skirt hitches up easy as I shove it higher, exposing more skin, more of her. She’s bare under the fishnets, no panties, and the realization hits me like a punch to the gut.
Fuck.
My cock strains against my jeans, aching already.
I break the kiss just enough to drag my mouth down her neck, biting the pulse point where her heart hammers. She arches, a soft whimper escaping, and it’s not the bite I expected—it’s surrender, raw and real.
My fingers hook into the fishnets between her thighs, and I tear them open with one sharp yank. The rip echoes in the night air, louder than the city below, and she shudders under me, her legs parting on instinct.
I drop lower, shouldering her thighs wider, my breath hot against her core.
She’s wet already, glistening in the dim city glow, and the sight of her—exposed, ready, mine, sends a visceral ache through me.
Not just want. Need.
Like if I don’t taste her now, I’ll lose something vital. I don’t tease. I dive in, tongue flat and firm, licking up her slit in one long stroke that makes her hips buck.
She cries out, fingers tangling in my hair, pulling hard enough to sting, but I don’t stop.
I devour her, sucking her clit, thrusting my tongue inside, feeling her clench around it.
Her moans are broken, desperate, and I chase every one, my hands gripping her thighs to hold her open, bruising her skin because I can’t help it.
She’s everywhere, her scent, her taste, the way she trembles—and it’s not enough. It’s never fucking enough.
Her orgasm builds fast; I feel it in the way her muscles tense, her breaths turning ragged.
I feel it—the exact moment her body starts to coil tight, thighs trembling around my head, her fingers yanking at my hair like she’s trying to anchor herself to the edge. She’s right there, teetering, hips rolling shamelessly against my mouth, chasing the release I’m giving her.
Not yet.
I pull back abruptly, lips slick with her, and she whines—high, frustrated, the sound slicing straight to my cock. Her eyes snap open, glassy and furious, chest heaving.
“Maksim—”
“No.” My voice is gravel, low and final. I rise over her, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, never breaking eye contact. “You don’t come until you’re on my cock.”
Her lips part on a protest, but I don’t give her time to form it.
I hook one arm under her waist, the other under her ass, and haul her up in one brutal motion.
She’s light when she’s not fighting me, legs instinctively wrapping around my hips as I carry her across the rooftop gravel toward the heavy metal door that leads back inside.
Her skirt is still bunched at her waist, torn fishnets framing the wet shine between her thighs, and every step rubs her against the hard ridge of me through my jeans.
I slam her back against the rough brick wall beside the door—not gentle, but careful enough that her head doesn’t crack against it. She gasps at the impact, nails digging into my shoulders, but her legs tighten around me like she’s afraid I’ll let go.
I won’t.
My mouth crashes back to hers while one hand fumbles between us, ripping my jeans open. My cock springs free—thick, heavy, the metal bars are warm from my body, ridged and unyielding.
I notch myself at her entrance, slick and swollen from my tongue, and push in slow, deliberate, letting her feel every inch as I sink deep.
She keens into my mouth, body jerking like I’ve shocked her.
Fuck, the way she clenches around me—hot, wet, fluttering, it’s obscene. The metal drags against her walls, and I feel it too: the tight friction, the way her pussy grips and releases around each ridge like it’s trying to milk me dry.
It’s torture for both of us, and I love it.
I bottom out with a low groan, hips flush to hers, and hold there for a second, forehead dropping to hers again, breaths mingling in harsh pants.
Her eyes are wide, pupils blown, lips swollen and trembling.
“Fuck” I rasp, voice wrecked. “I own you and this fucking perfect cunt.”
She tries to roll her hips, desperate for friction, but I pin her harder against the wall with my body, one hand braced beside her head, the other gripping her ass to keep her exactly where I want her.
“Not yet.”
I pull out almost all the way—slow, torturous—letting her feel the drag of me, then slam back in. Hard. Deep. She cries out, head thunking lightly back against the brick.
I set a brutal rhythm like she enjoys, rough, relentless, chasing something deeper than release.
Each thrust is possessive, punishing, intimate. Forehead still locked to hers, I watch every flicker across her face: the way her brows pinch, lips part on broken moans, eyes fluttering like she can’t decide whether to fight or fall apart.
“You don’t get to come until I say,” I breathe against her mouth. “Not after you tried to fucking fall. You want to die for me—” I cut off, teeth sinking into her lower lip hard enough to sting. “Do it on my cock.”
She’s shaking now, thighs quivering around my waist. Her nails rake down my back through my shirt, probably drawing blood. I don’t care.
I fuck her harder, faster, the wet slap of skin echoing off the rooftop, the city lights painting stripes across her flushed face. She’s close—so close her whole body is trembling, breaths coming in sharp, panicked little gasps.
“Maksim, please!”
I swallow the plea with my mouth, kissing her messy and deep, tongues clashing while I grind against her clit with every thrust.
The piercings keep catching, keep stretching, keep filling her until she’s sobbing into my kiss.
“Now,” I rasp against her lips. “You made me feel something. So now you feel everything. Come.”
She shatters.
Her cry is muffled against my mouth, body locking down around me, clenching so tight it drags a guttural groan out of my throat.
Wave after wave rips through her, milking every inch of me until I can’t hold back.
I bury myself to the hilt, hips jerking as I come hard; deep, hot pulses filling her, marking her from the inside while her walls flutter and squeeze around the piercings like she’s as desperate for me as I am for her.
We stay locked together, panting, foreheads pressed, her legs still wrapped around me like she’ll never let go. The wind whips around us, but neither of us moves.
I’m fucked.
I’m so fucked.
***
Vaska.
Vaska has my the fucking estate smelling like like warm dough and vanilla.
He sets a box on the counter like he’s delivering contraband, calm as always, eyes bright with the kind of amusement he saves for me. Inside is medovik—thin layers of honey cake drowned in condensed milk cream. Sweet enough to make your teeth ache. Soft enough to piss me off.
He knows I’ll eat it.
He knows I hate that he knows.
Ayla sits on the edge of the marble island. Her hair’s got that purple threaded through it, catching light when she moves and I can’t get over it. She stabs a slice with her fork and takes a bite, her eyes fluttering close.
A smear of cream catches at the corner of her mouth, her tongue peeks out to lick it clean.
My eyes track it before I can stop them.
My coffee black stays untouched. I keep my face blank. I keep my hands still, even when my body wants to pull her closer just to wipe that cream off her lips myself.
Vaska leans against the counter, arms crossed, watching her eat like it’s theater.
She glances between us, casual. Too casual. “Why don’t you live here?” she asks, like she’s commenting on the weather. “This place is ridiculous. Marble, chandeliers, enough rooms to hide a small army.” She gestures around with the fork. “I think we should live here.”
We.
The word lands clean and sharp between my ribs.
My grip tightens on the mug until the ceramic complains.
She doesn’t seem to notice what she just did. Or she does, and she’s brave enough not to care. Either way, it makes something hot and stupid crawl up the back of my neck.
I don’t answer.
She slides off the island, wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, and walks out. “Bathroom,” she mutters.
Her boots stomp on the marble. A small sound that shouldn’t feel like relief. The door clicks down the hall.
Vaska turns to me immediately.
“She’s right,” he says, like he’s discussing inventory. “You should be ruling from here. The family seat. Secure. Sends the message.”
“Drop it.”
He doesn’t. He watches the hallway, then looks at me like he’s aiming for a soft spot. “You let her say we without correcting her.”
I don’t look at him.
I stare at the doorway she disappeared through, like I can will her back before he keeps talking.
Then the thought hits me, stupid, small, human, and my mouth moves before I can kill it.
“Ask her what her favorite flower is.”
Silence. Vaska blinks, slow. “What?”
“You heard me.”
His mouth twitches like he’s deciding whether to laugh. “Why the hell don’t you ask her yourself?”
Because I don’t ask questions like that. Because it means I’m paying attention in ways I shouldn’t.
Because I already told her she’s mine and I don’t know what to do with the parts of me that want more than possession.
I don’t say any of that.
“Ask her,” I repeat, stern.
Vaska’s expression turns into a grin I want to break.
“Is that an order?”
I glare at him and his eyes light up.
“Yes. It’s an order.”
Footsteps return. Ayla comes back in, hair slightly mussed like she dragged her fingers through it, eyes alert like she’s counting exits even in a mansion.
Vaska doesn’t hesitate.
“Ayla,” he says, casual. “Maksim wants to know—what’s your favorite flower?”
My eyes snap to him.
What the fuck?
Her eyes land on me. Wide. Caught off guard.
And there it is.
Heat. Sharp and sudden. Up my throat, behind my ears.
Embarrassment.
It hits like a slap because it’s new. Because it’s weak.
Because I don’t get flustered.
She studies me like she’s trying to decide what this means. Like she’s holding my pulse between her fingers and turning it over.
She frowns.
Like she’s not sure.
Her gaze drifts to the ceiling for a second as if the answer might be written there.
Then she shrugs, simple as breathing. “Dandelions.”
I stare at her.
Dandelions.
Those are… nothing. They die in a day. They’re everywhere. They’re not even flowers, technically—they’re weeds pretending.
But I don’t say it. I don’t react. I just log it. File it away in the same mental drawer where I keep her scars, her laugh, the way she says my name when she’s coming apart. Dandelions. Noted.
Vaska’s grinning now—full, shit-eating grin. “Dandelions. Interesting choice.”
Ayla shrugs, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I like them.”
She walks past me, brushing her fingers along my arm on the way, light, deliberate, like she knows exactly what that touch does to me. Then she picks up her fork again, takes another bite of medovik, and hums happily.
I stare at the spot where her fingers touched me.
Vaska clears his throat. “So. Dandelions. You want me to source some, boss? Or are you handling this one yourself?”
I shoot him a look that promises violence later.
He just laughs under his breath.
Ayla looks between us. “What? What did I miss?”