32. Chapter 32
32
Bella
A while ago
T he dress is dead.Murdered in the line of duty.
Red Bergdorf, slit to the thigh, perfect tailoring—may she rest in expensive, slutty peace. She’s crumpled in the corner of my bathroom now, clinging to the tiled floor like a fallen soldier. Ripped clean down the side. Probably smells like sweat, sex, and regret. Definitely not returnable.
I showered until the water ran cold. Not because I was trying to wash him off me. (I mean, yes, I was. Obviously.) But also because the more I scrubbed, the more I remembered how fast it all happened. How fast I happened.
Now I’m staring at myself in the mirror, wrapped in black silk that dips too low in the back and shows too much leg for someone trying to reclaim their dignity. I don’t even remember packing this thing. Did Anya put it in my closet? Or does this place just stock slinky depression wear?
I run my fingers through my hair. My reflection looks… not great. Like someone trying to pretend she’s fine. Trying really hard. But her lips are too swollen, her eyes too glassy, and that thing in her chest? Still doing somersaults. Ugh. Gross.
My phone buzzes. I nearly don’t check it, because I know . I know it’s him. I can already hear the ice in his voice.
Konstantin: Be ready by 6 a.m. tomorrow. You’re needed at the office. Meetings start at seven sharp. No delays, no excuses. Wear something that says Director, not hostage. Don’t fuck this up.
I stare at the screen for a solid ten seconds before I type:
ME: Should I show up on all fours, since that’s clearly the only position you respect?
I stare at it, pulse hammering, then delete it, letter by letter. Can’t give him the satisfaction.
But my fingers twitch like they’ve got something to say, anyway. They move on instinct—petty, pissed-off instinct.
ME: Just curious, do you always text like a warlord, or is this foreplay?
Delete.
A bitter laugh bubbles up, dry in my throat. I rest the phone on my thigh and dig my knuckles into my eyes like that’ll wring the crazy out of me. It doesn’t.
He’s not even here , and he still manages to crawl under my skin like a parasite with a Rolex.
I pick the phone back up, thumb hovering. My jaw clenches.
ME: Your dick has more manners than you.
Delete.
God. What is wrong with me?
No , what is wrong with him ?
I toss the phone face-down on the mattress and climb into bed, hoping sleep will show up and take me out of this day like a hitman.
Buzz.Another one.
I roll over, groaning, and check it.
Konstantin: Your car’s in Garage One. Aston Martin. Matte gunmetal. Fingerprint ignition. Manual’s in the glove-box. GPS set to the office. Try not to crash.
I swallow. Slowly. Like I’m trying not to throw the phone out the window. My hand shakes from how mad I am. At him. At myself. At this entire fucking… whatever this is.
Because this— this —is how he follows up after wrecking me in the front seat like I’m a stress relief toy he keeps in the glove-box. No words. No checking in. Just logistics. A schedule and a sports car, like he’s paying me for services rendered, and now it’s time to get back to work.
Like I’m one of his girls. One of the ones he keeps fed, housed, and dressed—as long as they know their place. And apparently, mine’s on my knees.
I want to scream. I want to call Elena. I want to throw something.
Instead, I’m up again, legs moving before my brain signs off.
I swing open the side door of my suite and stomp straight into the corridor. Beautiful. Quiet. Marble floors and soft light spilling from sconces like it’s a goddamn spa.
I pass through what looks like a private library, except it’s the kind that no one actually uses . The kind with books color- coded and untouched, like they’re just props in a billionaire’s personality cosplay.
I don’t slow down.
“Third shelf,” Anya had whispered the other day. “Behind the Russian folklore section. There’s a latch.”
I find it. A tiny brass button disguised as part of the book spine. Of course. Because apparently, only dickheads with multiple enemies and main character syndrome need this many secret passageways.
Who does he think he is, Batman?
The wall clicks open.
And just like that, I’m in his territory.
I hesitate for half a second before I pound on the door.
TUD. TUD. TUD.
It echoes. Loud. Demanding.
Oh no.
I freeze.
Why did I knock like that? Why didn’t I knock like a normal person ? Why didn’t I—? Fuck . I should’ve just turned around, eaten something, cried into my stupid silk dress like a classy little trauma nugget.
Too late.
The door swings open.
And there he is.
Bare-chested. Lounge pants hanging low on his hips. Hair slightly damp like he showered too, which is just fucking rude. There’s a sliver of ink peeking out over his collarbone—black, sharp, curling down his side like it owns him.
His eyes drop to my nightdress. Then lower.
I tell him how I feel, give him a piece of my mind, and don’t pull any punches. Then, I fold my arms across my chest, sudden heat crawling up my skin like I’ve forgotten what I’m wearing. Like I just realized how short this dress is. How thin. I shift my weight, clearing my throat like that’ll do something to balance out the power in the air.
All I remember is walking in here like I had something to prove. Like I was the one in control. Like I knew what I was doing.
This is not what I had in mind.
I came here to fight. To throw words like knives and maybe storm out feeling like I’d won something.
Not… this.
His arms wrap around me, fast and final—one under my knees, one behind my back—and suddenly, I’m airborne.
“What the—? Konstantin!”
My hand shoots up, gripping his shoulder out of instinct, and I catch the heat of him. The tension. The kind that buzzes beneath the skin like a live wire, coiled too tight.
He doesn’t stop.
Doesn’t flinch.
Just carries me through like I’m weightless.
“Konstantin—what the hell—?”
“Quiet.”
One word. Flat. Commanding, and… final.
It shuts my mouth mid-breath. Not because I’m scared. Because I feel it. The shift in the air. The way his jaw locks. The restraint in every step he takes like he’s one wrong move from losing control.
My heartbeat’s in my throat now. My dress slips higher up my thighs. His skin brushes mine where his grip tightens. And when I look up—
Yeah.
It’s in his eyes. That storm. Hunger and fury layered beneath the surface, masked by that cold control he wears like armor. But it’s slipping. His breath’s too fast. His gaze too locked on me.
Like he’s daring me to say something else—so he has an excuse.
I don’t.
I don’t move.
Because somehow, in the silence he demanded, I realize exactly what I walked into.
And I’m not sure I want to walk out.
Present
Konstantin’s got me in his arms, one thick forearm hooked under my knees, the other clamped around my back, holding me like I weigh nothing. His grip’s tight, possessive—fingers digging into my skin through the silk gown, and I feel every flex of his bare chest against me, scars rough against the fabric.
My pulse jackhammers, caught between rage and this stupid, electric want I can’t shake. The bed’s close now, a dark pool of silk in the dim light, and before I can catch my breath, he tosses me onto it.
I hit the sheets with a soft thud, air rushing out of me. The silk’s cool, slippery—slides against my thighs as the gown’s slit splits wider, flashing skin.
I scramble up on my elbows, glaring, but he’s already there, towering at the foot of the bed. A giant—broad shoulders, V-shaped torso, veins snaking down to where his pants hang low. His cock’s hard, straining the fabric, and damn it, my eyes snag there, heat flooding me despite myself.
“Spread your legs,” he says, voice a low rumble, slicing through the music.
My thighs lock shut, reflex kicking in. “No,” I mutter, but it’s flimsy, and he knows it. He steps closer, his shadow swallowing me.
“Spread them, Bella. Now.” It’s deeper this time, a growl that hooks into my spine.
My brain’s yelling “fight,” but my body’s folding—legs parting slow, trembling. The gown rides up, lace panties peeking out, and his gaze drops, heavy, pinning me. I’m wet already, soaked, and the way he smirks says he sees it.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, kneeling between my thighs.
His hands—big, rough—slide up my legs, pushing the silk to my hips. It bunches, cool against my skin, and I shiver, breath hitching.
“Here’s what’s happening next.” His fingers graze my panties’ edge, teasing. “I’m going to lick you. Slow. Deep. Until you scream my name.”
My hips jerk, traitorously eager, and he chuckles—low, dark.
“Then you’ll come on my tongue. Again. And again. Till you’re a mess.”
My mind’s a wreck—wanting to hate this, him, but I’m gripping the sheets, knuckles white, anticipation clawing me apart.
He tugs my panties down slowly, lace scraping my thighs. The air’s cold, sharp—I gasp, bare under his stare. His breath hits my skin, warm, too close, and then his mouth’s on me—lips brushing my clit, tongue dragging up my slit, deliberate, tasting.
“Fuuuck,” I moan, loud, back arching as he circles, sucks, unravels me.
The sheets twist in my fists, legs shaking, and I’m gone—lost to his mouth, his control. Konstantin’s tongue is relentless, flicking fast over my clit, then dragging slow and deliberate, tasting every shuddering inch of me.
My hips buck, grinding against his face, desperate for more as he pushes me toward the edge.
“Konstantin—” I gasp, voice breaking, but he doesn’t relent.
His hands clamp down on my thighs, pinning me wide open, and he sucks hard, pulling a raw scream from my throat.
My back arches off the bed, every nerve igniting, and suddenly, I’m shattering—coming apart in a way I’ve never felt before, my body burning hotter, wilder than it ever has in my lifetime.
I scream his name again, “Konstantin!”, the sound tearing out of me as I grind harder into his mouth, chasing every wave of pleasure that crashes through me. He keeps going, licking me through it, drawing out every last tremble until I’m a gasping, shaking wreck, completely undone.
He pulls back, lips slick and glistening, his dark eyes blazing with hunger.
Rising to his feet, he towers over me, and I can barely catch my breath as he hooks his thumbs into his pants and yanks them down. His cock springs free—thick, hard, veins pulsing along its length.
I stare, heat flooding me all over again at the sight of him, massive and ready.
“On your hands and knees,” he commands, his voice rough and low, slicing through the haze in my mind.
My body’s still trembling, but I obey, rolling over slowly, the silk sheets sliding under me.
I push up onto my knees, ass lifted, the bunched-up gown clinging to my hips. My heart pounds as his hand grips my hip, steadying me, and I feel the blunt head of his cock drag through my wetness, teasing me until I whimper.
“You want this?” he growls, the sound primal, demanding.
“Yes,” I choke out, voice cracking. “Please, Konstantin.”
He doesn’t hesitate. His hands tighten on my hips, fingers digging in, and he thrusts deep inside me, filling me in one brutal, perfect stroke.
I cry out, the stretch intense, overwhelming, but so damn good. He takes me hard, each thrust driving me forward, my hands slipping on the silk. My moans spill out, loud and unrestrained, mingling with his low, possessive grunts.
“Mine,” he snarls, his hand sliding up my spine to fist my hair, tugging my head back. “Say it.”
“Yours,” I gasp, lost in the rhythm, the heat, the way he owns every inch of me. “I’m yours.”
Konstantin’s thrusts are relentless, driving into me with a force that has my moans echoing off the walls. My body’s on fire, every nerve sparking, teetering on the edge of something explosive. Then, without warning, he stops—pulls out completely.
The sudden emptiness hits me like a punch, and I gasp, hips twitching involuntarily as I try to process the loss.
“Konstantin, what—?” My voice is a ragged mess, but he’s already moving, leaning toward the nightstand.
I twist my head, watching through a haze of need as he grabs a condom, the foil glinting in the dim light.
He rips it open with his teeth, a sharp, deliberate move, and my breath catches as he takes himself in hand—his cock massive, thick, veins standing out against the flushed skin. He rolls the condom down slowly, inch by agonizing inch, his eyes locked on mine, dark and predatory. The sight alone sends a fresh wave of heat crashing through me, my core clenching around nothing.
“Lift your ass higher,” he orders, voice low and rough, cutting through the silence like a blade. “And finger yourself.”
I freeze for a split second, heart pounding, the command sinking in.
“Now, Bella,” he snaps, sharper this time, and my body jolts into action before my mind can argue.
I shift on the bed, pushing up onto my knees, arching my back until my ass is high in the air, exposed and vulnerable. My hand trembles as it slides between my thighs, fingers slipping through the slickness there. I circle my clit, slow at first, then faster, and a moan tears out of me—sharp, desperate. The sensation’s intense, amplified by the weight of his stare, but it’s not enough.
Not compared to him.
My skin burns, arousal and embarrassment twisting together as I feel him watching, his presence filling the room.
He doesn’t move closer—not yet. Instead, he strokes himself, hand moving lazily over his sheathed cock, the latex gleaming faintly.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, the words dripping with control, and my stomach flips. “Now play with your nipples. Pinch them hard.”
My breath hitches, a whimper catching in my throat, but I obey.
My free hand slides up, tugging at my nipple through the thin silk of my gown.
The dual assault—my fingers between my legs, the sharp pinch on my chest—makes my body shudder, pleasure spiking hard and fast. I’m wetter now, dripping, and the sound of it fills the air, obscene and undeniable. His gaze is unrelenting, heavy, possessive, and it pushes me closer to the edge, even as I fight to please him.
Then he teases. Steps closer, just enough that I feel the heat of him, but not enough to touch where I need him most.
“Slower,” he commands, voice a dark purr. “Draw it out.”
I groan, frustration clawing at me, but I slow my fingers, torturing myself as he watches, his strokes matching my pace.
He leans down, lips brushing the small of my back, a featherlight kiss that sends a shiver racing up my spine.
“You look so fucking desperate,” he whispers, tongue flicking out to taste my skin. “Arch more. Let me see everything.”
I arch more, ass up, my forehead pressed to the bed to keep my balance. My fingers drive deeper, desperate, my other hand pinching my nipple till it stings. My body’s a trembling mess, muscles locked, panting like I’m running out of air, pleading without a damn word.
“I.. I’m going to cum! Fuuckk.”
My eyes flicker, catching his shadow, and I’m lost, wanting him to fuck me right now. But he is taking his own sweet time, he trails his free hand along my spine, a barely-there touch that’s somehow worse than nothing, and then he kisses me again—higher this time, between my shoulder blades, a soft contrast to the filthy edge of his control.
“Not yet,” he says, smirking against my skin. “You don’t get to come until I’m back inside you.”
“Please,” I choke out, voice breaking, my body screaming for release. He chuckles, low and wicked, and gives my ass a light slap—just enough to sting, just enough to make me clench around my own fingers.
“Keep going,” he says, stepping back to watch again, stroking himself with that same maddening calm. “Show me how much you need it.”
I’m lost in it now—his voice, his dirty commands, the way he’s unraveling me. My fingers move faster despite his order, chasing the edge, and my mind’s a chaotic mess: this is just sex, just sex. But it’s not. It’s him, his control, the way he makes me crave every word, every touch. And as I teeter there, ass high, fingers buried in myself, his eyes burning into me, I know I’m already too far gone to care.