29. Chapter 29
29
Bella
I ’m fucked.
Not literally—yet—but my head’s a champagne-soaked mess, and I’m slumped in the passenger seat of Konstantin’s Rolls-Royce, the same beast we rode to that Summit shitshow.
I shouldn’t have downed that last flute—or the one before. But Tatiana’s “acquisition” jab, that creep’s leer, and Konstantin’s whole… everything?
Yeah, it’s a lot.
Boy, this kind of scene is so not my open-house vibe. I’m used to charming buyers, not dodging Bratva snakes, and now I’m stuck in this car, drowning in leather and him.
The Cullinan’s huge, the interior sleek and black, and the smell—rich leather mixed with Konstantin’s cologne, something dark and spicy—hits me like a drug. It’s curling into my brain, making my skin hum, and I swear I’m losing it.
I sneak a glance at him, driving with that calm, scary focus, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on his thigh. His face is stupid-handsome—sharp jaw, stubble I want to scrape my nails through, lips that look too soft for a guy who punches strangers.
A car speeds by, headlights splashing over him, and his gray-blue eyes catch the light, glinting like steel under moonlight, wild and dangerous.
Oh God.
My breath hitches, and I’m staring too long, too hard.
Think about something else , I hiss at myself inside my head, squeezing my eyes shut. Escrow forms, HOA fees, that time I sold a condo with a leaky roof— anything but him. But it’s useless; his cologne’s in my lungs, and my body’s a traitor, tingling like I’m some lovesick intern, not Bella Marquez, condo queen.
I clear my throat, desperate for a distraction. “So, uh, is it cool you bailed on the Summit so early?” I ask, voice wobbly like I’m pitching a client. “I mean, big event, right?”
He doesn’t look at me, just makes a right turn, the car gliding smoothly.
“Arseny and Timur are there,” he says, flat, eyes on the road, like I’m not worth a glance.
Ouch .
I nod, lips tight, and silence crashes in, heavy, awkward, the kind that makes you want to scream just to hear something.
I fidget, picking at my dress hem, and try again because, apparently, I’m a glutton.
“So… Tatiana and Filipp,” I start, hesitant. “They’re, like, your family, huh?”
He exhales sharply, like I’ve poked a bruise.
“My father had two wives,” he says, “Tatiana’s the second. Filipp’s her son.”
My jaw drops—two wives? Like, what, a soap opera? I blink at him, brain scrambling. No wonder he’s so… walled off, if his life’s that messed up. The more I learn, the more I get why he’s locked tight, and it hits me weird, a tug in my chest I don’t want to name.
Great. Now, two of his mothers don’t like me. One more, and we can start a club.
I’m about to say something—sorry, maybe—when he shifts, jaw tight, and mutters, “I shouldn’t have brought you to that stupid event in the first place.” His voice is rough, almost soft, and the car sways, just enough to nudge me closer, my shoulder brushing his arm.
My heart skips, and damn it, I’m staring again because of course I am. I try thinking of tax codes, but it’s no use—his face is right there, those eyes, that stubble, and I’m screwed.
He shifts, sleeves rolled up— when did that happen? —and I see veins roping his forearms, thick and strong, like they could pin me down without trying.
My eyes slide lower, unthinking, to his lap, where his pants pull tight, and fuck. That bulge. I remember it—hard, big, way too big—pressed against me in the dressing room earlier.
I’m soaked, pantyless, thighs squeezing as heat throbs between them. I want to climb over, rip his zipper down, and ride him till we crash. Not just taste him—own him, right here, cliffs be damned.
I imagine ripping this seatbelt off, crawling over, unzipping those pants, and… Jesus, sucking him. Right here, right now, with Big Sur’s cliffs zooming past.
My fingers twitch on my dress, bunching the fabric, and I’m half-convinced I’ve snapped. Never in my life have I done that. Blow a guy in a car? Please. I’m Bella Marquez, not a porn star. The closest I’ve come is reading Elena’s dumb article in Cosmo : “10 Ways to Blow His Mind Before Dessert.” Number six was “highway surprise,” and I snorted coffee, thinking who does that? Now I’m that idiot, dying to try it, and it’s all his fault—his scent, his thighs, his everything.
He moves, and I’m caught. His eyes snap to mine, then lower, zeroing in on my stare, and a dark, filthy grin spreads like he’s reading every nasty thought in my head.
“Thinking about my cock, krasavitsa ?” he rasps, voice pure sex, thick with Russian grit.
I freeze, face hot, mouth dry, and my brain’s a blank—what do I even say?
“Uh…” I stammer, voice a squeak, nervous as hell, but my hand’s already moving, landing on his thigh, warm and solid. I bite my lower lip hard and mumble, “Yes…” It’s barely a whisper, but it’s out, and my heart’s hammering, shocked at my own guts.
Konstantin’s eyes darken, a low growl rumbling deep in his chest, and fuck, he’s into it. His thigh tenses under my hand, pants tightening more, and that grin turns hungry.
“Tell me,” he says, voice dropping lower, “what do you want to do with it?” It’s a dare, his gaze burning, and my whole body’s screaming, turned on by how straight-up I was, how he’s eating it up.
I swallow, apprehensive but buzzing, his command pulling something brave from me.
“I… want to touch it,” I say, voice shaky but honest. “Maybe… taste it.” My cheeks burn— God, Bella, really? —but I’m drunk, and he’s making me bolder, like I can’t hide anymore. “I want to suck it.”
“You want it that bad, krasavitsa ?” he taunts, voice low, commanding. It’s like he’s peeling me open. “How wet are you right now? Tell me.” His eyes flick to mine, dark, daring, and fuck , my thighs clench, heat flooding so hard I’m trembling, his question hitting like a spark.
“I… I…” I stammer, face blazing. “So wet… God,” I mumble, voice cracking, honest but shaky, like I’m confessing to a priest. My condo-queen brain’s screaming “shut up,” but his voice— tell me —pulls it out, and I’m dying, turned on by how he’s making me say it.
He groans and grabs my hand from his thigh, guiding it to his pants and pressing it against him. Holy shit, he’s rock-hard, huge, straining.
“Feel how fucking hard you’ve got me,” he rasps. “Rub me, Bella, slow.”
My breath’s gone, fingers trembling as I touch him, feeling every inch through the fabric, and God, it’s too much—hot, thick, pulsing under my hand.
“Can’t… can’t take this,” I gasp, half-laughing, half-panicked, but I rub him, slow, hesitant, like he said, my palm sliding up and down.
My pussy’s throbbing, wetter than ever, and I’m whimpering, a nervous mess, but I can’t help but do as he tells me.
His hips twitch, a low, guttural growl ripping out, and he’s watching me, eyes black with want.
“Good girl,” he says, voice raw, filthy, and fuck , that hits deep, making me clench harder, my hand moving faster, bolder, like I’m chasing his voice.
“Fuck, baby,” he groans. “I wanna taste you—lick you till you’re screaming, my tongue all over that sweet pussy.”
I gasp. God, his filthy words just make me drip more, and now my pussy’s screaming for him, betraying every ounce of me. I’m rubbing him through his pants, feeling him—hot, thick—and God, he’s getting harder, bigger, straining under my palm, and it’s killing me, my thighs squeezing as I fight not to moan.
“I want you to finger yourself,” he growls, voice rough, insistent, like he’s tearing my head open, “and tell me how wet you are.”
His jaw’s tight, eyes flicking between me and the road, and fuck , he’s trying so hard to focus, knuckles white on the wheel, and that—his struggle—makes me burn hotter, my pussy aching like it’s begging. My hand’s still on him, rubbing slowly, feeling him pulse, and I’m dizzy, drunk on champagne and him, timid but trapped in his voice.
I hesitate, face on fire—Bella Marquez, fingering herself in a car?—but his growl’s a leash, pulling me. My free hand slips down, trembling, under my dress, and shit, I’m soaked, pantyless, fingers sliding easy, too easy.
“I’m… dripping wet,” I whisper, voice trembling, half-shocked that I said it, but it’s true, and my cheeks burn, nervous but bold, like he’s unlocking me. I keep rubbing him, his cock swelling under my hand, and his focus cracks—a twitch in his cheek, a hissed breath—and God, that’s hot, knowing I’m doing this to him, my pussy spasming as I touch myself.
“Fuck…” I moan.
He smirks, dark and dangerous, and leans closer, his voice dropping to a filthy rasp. “Yes, krasavitsa , I wanna put my cock in you,” he says, “feel that tight pussy milk it till you’re screaming my name.”
His words hit like a shock, raw, overwhelming, and I’m done. My brain shorts out, heat spiking so hard I’m whimpering, fingers slipping faster, rubbing him harder, and I’ve lost it, Shy Bella buried under this needy, reckless mess who’d let him do anything right now.
My fingers shake, but I hit the buckle—snap—and lunge, yanking his zipper down. It sticks, and I mutter, “Stupid fancy pants,” laughing despite myself. He groans, deep, primal, the Cullinan swerving as his hand clamps my wrist—not stopping, pressing harder, his grip hot and rough.
“Fuck, krasavitsa ,” he snarls, eyes dark, wild, “you’re gonna kill us both.” But he’s smirking, hips shifting up, and God, he’s huge, straining against his boxers, and my mouth’s dry, hungry.
I lean closer, breath shaky, and take him in my hand—hot, thick, pulsing—and my lips follow, tentative at first, then deeper, saliva and precum mixing, making him slick. I can’t take all of him—he’s too big, and I’m no pro—but I try, licking him slow, like an ice cream on a hot day, my tongue swirling over the tip, savoring the salt and heat.
He growls again, a deep, guttural sound that vibrates through me, one hand tangling in my hair, tugging just enough to make me moan, the other jerking back to the wheel as the car sways.
“Fuck, yes,” he rumbles, voice wrecked, “just like that, baby.”
He turns sharply onto his private road—dark pines and no streetlights—and I glance up, catching the GPS: 10 minutes to the mansion. My heart skips, and he pulls over, tires crunching on gravel, the car lurching to a stop.
“Enough driving,” he mutters, voice rough, and I’m already moving. My red dress hikes up, sliding high, baring my ass as I bend, pantyless and exposed, the cool air hitting my skin. I’m trembling, shy but wild, his words— taste you, screaming —looping in my head, and I want him to see me, want him to want me.