26. Chapter 26
26
Konstantin
T he curtain falls behind me, and I force my legs to move, each step a battle against the fire raging in my veins. My cock’s so hard it’s throbbing, a traitor straining against my trousers, screaming to turn back and bury itself in Bella’s tight, dripping heat. My balls ache, heavy with need, every pulse a reminder of how close I came to losing it in there—pinning her to that wall, her moans in my mouth, her slick little pussy begging for me. Fuck. I’m Konstantin Belov, the man who bends empires to my will, and yet that woman’s got me one breath from unraveling like a goddamn teenager.
I stalk to the private lounge at the end of Bergdorf’s suite, the one they keep for men like me—dim lights, leather chairs, a decanter of Macallan that costs more than most people’s rent.
The stylist’s gone, scurried off like a rat when I barked her name. Good. I need space to think, to shove this hunger back into its cage.
I pour two fingers of scotch, the glass cool against my palm, but it does nothing to dull the memory of Bella’s skin—soft, flushed, trembling under my fingers. Her nipples, stiff and perfect, practically begged for my tongue. And that look in her eyes, defiance mixed with raw want, like she’d burn the world down just to make me fuck her.
I sink into the chair, legs spread, trying to ease the pressure in my groin. My mind’s a war zone. Part of me wants to storm back in there, rip that red dress off the hanger, and take her on that velvet chaise until she’s screaming my name loud enough to crack the mirrors. But I don’t break. Not for anyone. Not even for her, with her smart mouth and those curves that make me want to sin in ways that’d make the devil blush. She’s my wife—my asset, my move on the board—and I’ll be damned if I let her see how much she’s fucking with my head.
Still, there’s something else clawing at me, softer, dangerous. The way she leaned into my touch, not just craving my cock but me, like I’m more than the bastard who owns her contract.
It’s a flicker of warmth I haven’t felt since—fuck, ever. I shove it down hard. Affection’s a liability. But Christ, when she whispered my name, all fire and need, it hit like a blade to the chest, sharp and sweet.
And now, all I can think about is her beneath me, that tight little body open and ready. I want to stretch her pussy with my cock, slow and deep, every inch claiming her until she’s trembling, gasping, begging me for more. I’d take my time, make her feel every thrust, watch her eyes glaze over as she pleads for release I won’t give until I’m good and ready. She’d be mine—completely, undeniably—her moans the only sound in my world. The thought alone has my blood pounding, my control fraying at the edges, but I hold it together. She’s not getting that yet. Not until I decide she’s earned it.
My phone vibrates, sharp against my thigh. I pull it out, eyes narrowing at Timur’s text:
Car’s here. Minister of Commerce is in the lounge. Wants to talk Hudson Yards—says the township deal’s got issues.
Of course. Hudson Yards—New York’s gleaming new empire of glass towers and billion-dollar dreams—is my latest battlefield, and now some politician thinks he can throw a wrench in my plans. I pocket the phone, jaw tight.
Not now.
Now all I can see is Bella, bare and panting, my ruined lace trophy burning a hole in my pocket. I want to wrap it around my fist later, stroke myself to the thought of her wearing nothing under that dress, every step she takes tonight a reminder of how wet I left her. My cock twitches, and I grit my teeth, forcing a slow breath. Patience. Control.
I reach for the decanter on the table, pouring a measure of Macallan 18 into a heavy crystal glass. The amber liquid steadies my hand, a burn I can control, unlike the fire she’s lit in my blood. I grip the glass, willing the cool weight to ground me, to keep me from storming back in there and taking her against the wall.
Bella’s dry cough breaks the silence, a soft rustle from the dressing room. I straighten, glass halfway to my lips, every nerve on edge. The curtain parts, and there she is—Bella, stepping out in that red dress like she’s walking straight out of my filthiest fantasies.
Fuck me.
The gown clings to her like liquid sin, scarlet silk hugging every curve, the neckline plunging just enough to make my blood roar. Her tits are a goddamn masterpiece, barely contained, the fabric teasing the swell where my hands should be. The slit up her thigh flashes skin with every step, a promise of that bare, slick pussy I know she’s hiding—no panties, just like I ordered. Her hips sway, slow and deliberate, like she knows exactly what she’s doing to me. Her hair’s a wild cascade, framing those eyes—blue fire, defiant and needy, daring me to break my own rules.
My cock’s a steel rod now, pulsing so hard it’s painful, my balls tight with the urge to drag her somewhere private and fuck her until we’re both raw. My fingers flex around the glass, itching to grab her, to rip that dress off and bury my face between her thighs until she’s sobbing my name. But it’s her face that stops me cold—cheeks flushed, lips parted, a mix of vulnerability and power that makes my chest ache in a way I don’t trust.
She stops a few feet away, one hand on her hip, and cocks an eyebrow.
“Well? Is this distracting enough for you, or should I try something with a higher slit?”
My jaw clenches, heat flooding my gut.
“Careful, krasavitsa ,” I say, voice rough as gravel. “You’re playing with fire, and I’m not in the mood to be gentle.”
Her lips quiver, not quite a smile, her eyes wide and glassy from the way I left her aching. She shifts her weight, the dress clinging to her curves, and swallows hard.
“What’s that look?” she says, voice low, a little unsteady. “Planning to leave me hanging again, or is this dress finally good enough?”
I set the glass down, slow, deliberate, my eyes locked on hers.
“Keep talking like that, and you’ll be on your knees before we leave this room.” My gaze drops to her mouth, imagining those lips wrapped around me, and my cock throbs so hard I nearly hiss. “That dress is a fucking crime. You’re lucky I don’t tear it off and take you right here.”
She steps closer, close enough that I catch her scent—jasmine and heat, pure sex. Her eyes flicker, wide and unsteady, no words forming as she bites her lip hard. A tiny shiver runs through her, and I see it—the way she’s picturing herself on her knees, yearning so fiercely it steals her voice, leaving her raw and exposed.
I’m on my feet before I realize it, towering over her, my hand catching her chin to tilt her face up.
“No come back, Bella?” I murmur, thumb tracing her lip, her pulse racing under my touch. “You don’t need to talk when I can feel how much you want me—ready to break, just waiting for my say.”
Her pupils dilate, a soft gasp escaping, and I feel it again—that flicker of something softer, warmer, in the way she leans into my touch. My thumb lingers, tracing her jaw, and for a split second, I want to kiss her, to taste that fire without breaking it. The thought shocks me, and I drop my hand, stepping back before I do something stupid.
“Move,” I say, voice clipped, nodding toward the door. “We’re late.”
She blinks, thrown, but recovers fast, tossing her hair with a smirk.
“Yes, sir,” she purrs, mock-saluting, and fuck if that doesn’t make my balls ache worse.
As she sashays past, the dress hugging her ass like a lover, I clench my fists to keep from grabbing her. My body’s screaming to take her now, to hell with the Summit, but I’m Konstantin. I don’t crack. Come tonight, with nothing but that dress on her slick skin, she’ll plead for me, hoarse and broken, till the world knows she’s mine to wreck.