42. Chapter 42
42
Bella
T he world is a haze, soft and warm, like I’m floating in a dream I don’t want to wake from.
My body feels weightless, cradled against something solid—a chest, broad and firm, radiating heat through a thin layer of fabric. Arms hold me, one under my knees, the other around my back, carrying me through the dark. The scent wraps around me—cedar, smoke, something sharp and dangerous that makes my head spin. My cheek presses against a T-shirt, stretched tight over muscle, and I nuzzle closer, chasing the warmth.
Safe. So fucking safe.
This can’t be real. It’s a dream, isn’t it? The best kind.
I murmur something incoherent, my lips brushing the hollow of a collarbone, and the arms tighten, sending a flutter through my stomach. My eyes crack open, just a sliver, and the world sharpens enough to see him—Konstantin. His jaw, shadowed with stubble, the hard line of his profile against the dim light.
I must be dreaming, I think, my heart stuttering.
He’s too real, too solid, too everything.
I reach out, slow and trembling, my fingers brushing his cheek. His stubble scrapes my skin, rough and warm, and he stops moving, his head tilting down.
Our eyes lock, storm-gray meeting mine, and time stretches, heavy and electric. I smile, soft and unguarded, my thumb grazing the corner of his mouth.
“You’re home,” I murmur, voice thick with sleep, the words slipping out like a secret I didn’t know I held. “I like this.”
His breath hitches, a faint tremor in his jaw, and his eyes darken, holding mine like I’ve said something he’s never heard before. My fingers linger, tracing the sharp edge of his cheekbone, and for a moment, it’s just us—me, touching him like he’s mine, and him, staring like I’ve cracked something open.
The dream holds me, soft and safe, and I don’t want it to end.
I smile, lazy and content, letting the dream pull me deeper.
Then the world shifts. I’m lowered, sinking into a bed so soft it feels like falling into a cloud. The arms slip away, and I whimper at the loss, reaching out blindly. My fingers find nothing but cool sheets, and the haze starts to crack.
Wait. Where am I?
My eyes flutter open, heavy with sleep, and the room comes into focus—shadows and moonlight, high ceilings, dark wood.
A bed too big for one person.
And him.
Konstantin Belov sits on the edge, elbows on his knees, hands clasped like he’s praying to a god he doesn’t believe in.
His black T-shirt clings to his shoulders, the fabric taut over muscle, and sweatpants hang low on his hips, casual but deliberate; like even at home, he’s a man who commands. His jaw is tight, hair mussed from dragging his hands through it, and those eyes are locked on me, burning with something I can’t name.
Hunger. Restraint. Something more.
My heart stumbles.
“Konstantin?” My voice is a rasp, thick with sleep, and it feels too loud in this tomb of a room. I push up on one elbow, my faded Homer Simpson shirt twisting around my waist, the hem riding up my thigh. The blanket slips, and I’m suddenly aware of how bare I am underneath—just panties and this stupid pajama top. “Where…? What the hell?”
“My room,“ he says, voice low, clipped, like he’s biting back a thousand other words. “You fell asleep with Alya. I brought you here.”
I blink, piecing it together. Alya’s room. The lavender spray, the stuffed animals, Guess How Much I Love You open on the floor. I’d been reading to her, her little body curled against mine, and then… nothing.
Exhaustion must’ve hit me like a freight train. The day’s chaos—Julian and Lila’s drama, that cryptic call from Irina, juggling the kids and playing perfect mafia wife—had wrung me dry. But this? Waking up in his bed? My pulse spikes, heat crawling up my neck.
Waking up in his bed?
My pulse spikes, heat crawling up my neck.
“Oh. Why?” I ask. “Why not my room?”
My voice sounds casual. Like this isn’t a huge fucking deal. Like I didn’t just wake up surrounded by him—his sheets, his scent, his presence.
I ask the question. But I already know the answer. Or maybe I just hope for it. Because my body’s still humming from the ghost of his arms. The weight of them. Solid and certain, like I was something worth carrying.
The memory of touching his face lingers—fleeting, instinctive. My fingers still tingle like they crossed a line I can’t uncross. Was that real? Or just a half-dream, the kind you want to crawl back into?
He doesn’t answer right away. Just looks at me like I’m the last glass of whiskey on earth, and he hasn’t had a drop in years.
“Seemed easier,” he says, but his voice is rough, and his eyes flicker like he’s hiding something.
His gaze drags over me—my bare thigh, the curve of my hip, the way my nipples are already hard under this ridiculous shirt. My skin prickles, heat pooling low, and I cross my arms, trying to hide how much he’s getting to me.
“Easier. Right,” I scoff, shoving my hair out of my face. “You don’t do easy, Konstantin. You do control. So, what’s the play here?” My voice is steadier than I feel, but my heart’s pounding, and the contract’s screaming in my head— Do not fall in love with him. Two weeks in, and I’m already slipping, my body begging for him while my brain scrambles to remember Irina, the kids, Friday’s looming mess.
This is a deal, a fucking signature, not… whatever this is.
He leans closer, the mattress dipping, and I catch the cedar-smoke scent of him again, pulling me back to that dreamlike haze.
“No play, krasavitsa ,” he says, voice low, dangerous.
My body betrays me instantly. The way he says “ krasavitsa ,” all rough and Russian, sends a jolt straight to my core, my pussy pulsing like it’s got a mind of its own. My nipples tighten painfully against the thin fabric of my shirt, and my thighs tremble, pressing together to ease the ache.
Fuck, it’s just a word, but it’s like he’s reached inside me, flipped a switch, and now I’m wet, aching, ready to climb him right here. My breath hitches, and I bite my lip, trying to hide the flush creeping up my chest, but his eyes miss nothing, darkening as they track every twitch of my body.
“I wanted you here. In my bed.” His hand moves, slow and deliberate, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear, and his fingers linger, warm against my cheek. The touch is soft, too soft for a man like him, and it sends a shiver down my spine.
And then—oh, fuck—my ovaries practically do a backflip, like they’ve just heard the starting gun for the horniest race of their life. I swear I feel a twinge, a ridiculous, cartoonish ping in my lower belly.
Calm down, you desperate eggs.
This man’s barely touched me, and I’m already a mess, my pussy throbbing, my brain screaming “more” while my ovaries chant “breed me” like they’ve got no chill.
My breath catches, and I’m fucked, because I want to lean into that touch, want to let him unravel me.
“You’re breaking the rules,” I whisper, trying to sound sharp, but it’s breathless, my body betraying me. “This wasn’t part of the deal.”
“The deal, krasavitsa, is I get to fuck you senseless whenever we crave it,” he growls, voice dripping with hunger, his hands seizing my hips and yanking me onto his lap before I can breathe.
Ok, fuck it. I want him, and I want him now.
I straddle him, my core pressing against the hard, thick length of his cock through his sweatpants, and a whimper slips out, raw and needy. His heat seeps through the thin layers between us, and my pussy clenches, already aching for more. But before I can move, his hands slide up, one cupping my jaw, the other tangling in my hair, and he pulls me into a kiss that steals every thought from my head.
His lips are soft but demanding, moving against mine with a slow, deliberate hunger that makes my toes curl.
I open for him, and his tongue slips inside, hot and slick, tasting me like I’m the only thing he’s ever wanted. It’s not just a kiss—it’s a fucking invasion, every stroke of his tongue pulling a soft moan from my throat. My fingers dig into his shoulders, nails biting through his T-shirt, and I kiss him back, desperate, my tongue tangling with his, chasing the cedar-smoke taste of him. My heart’s pounding, my nipples tightening against my shirt, and I keep reminding myself: Don’t fall. Don’t feel.
But fuck, his mouth is a drug, and I’m already addicted, my body arching closer, begging for more.
He deepens the kiss, a low growl rumbling in his chest, and I feel it vibrate through me, sending a fresh wave of heat to my core.
His teeth graze my lower lip, a sharp nip that makes me gasp, and then he’s soothing it with a slow, sensual lick, like he’s savoring every second. My hands slide into his hair, tugging hard, and he groans, the sound so raw it makes my pussy pulse.
I’m drowning in him, in the heat of his lips, the scrape of his stubble, the way he’s kissing me like he wants to claim every inch of my soul.
This is just sex, I tell myself, but my body’s screaming something else, something dangerous, and I’m too far gone to care.
He pulls back suddenly, his breath ragged, and his eyes drop to my chest, narrowing at the faded Homer Simpson shirt clinging to my skin.
“This,” he says, voice low and incredulous, “is the ugliest fucking shirt I’ve ever seen.” His lips twitch, like he’s torn between disgust and amusement, and his arched brow is so comically serious that I almost burst out laughing.
I bite my lip, a giggle bubbling up as I catch his expression—pure, mafia-boss disdain for Homer’s grinning face.
“Don’t hate on Homer,” I say, smirking, my voice shaky from the kiss. “He’s got more personality than your entire wardrobe.”
The absurdity of it—arguing about my pajama shirt while I’m straddling his cock—makes my grin widen, and for a second, we’re just us, not a contract, not a deal, just two people caught in a ridiculous moment.
His eyes darken, but there’s a spark of humor there, and he shakes his head, muttering something in Russian that sounds like a curse.
Then his hands are back on me, and I grind against him, chasing the friction that’s setting my nerves on fire, my pussy clenching at the feel of him, so fucking close yet not close enough. His fingers dig into my thighs, rough but reverent, and he kisses me again, hot and desperate, his tongue sweeping past my lips, tasting me like he’s been starving.
“Fuck, Bella,” he murmurs, voice wrecked, his hands sliding under my Homer Simpson shirt to cup my breasts, thumbs circling my nipples until I’m trembling, my panties soaked through.
My head’s a warzone—
This is just sex. Just a deal.
Don’t feel anything.
But his touch, his mouth, the way he’s looking at me like I’m more than a contract—it’s too fucking much.
Fuck. I want him, not just his cock, and that scares the shit out of me. Irina, Julian, Lila, Friday—they flicker in my mind, but my body’s screaming louder, begging to be his, to let go, to burn.
I tug at his T-shirt, yanking it off to reveal scars and muscle that make my mouth water.
“You’re gonna ruin me,” I pant, my nails scraping his shoulders as I rock against him, the friction driving me wild.
“Good,” he says, grinning, and flips us, pinning me beneath him. His weight is perfect, his hips settling between my thighs as he kisses my neck, sucking hard enough to leave a mark.
“You like this,” he says, voice dark and filthy. “My mouth on you. My hands. Say it.”
“Fucking prick,” I mutter, but I’m smiling, my body arching as he strips my shirt off, tossing it to the floor. His mouth finds my breast, tongue swirling, and I’m gasping, my thighs squeezing his hips.
“Yeah, I fucking love it,” I admit, voice breaking. “Now do something about it.”
He laughs, low and rough, and kisses down my stomach, my hips, until his fingers hook into my panties and pull them off. His mouth is on my pussy, hot and relentless, licking and sucking my clit until I’m shaking, my thighs clamping around his head.
“Konstantin,” I moan, my fingers in his hair, pulling hard. “You’re too fucking good at this.”
He groans, the vibration pushing me closer.
“You taste like fucking heaven,” he says, and I come, screaming his name as pleasure rips through me, my body shuddering under his tongue.
He’s back up, kissing me, letting me taste myself, and I tug at his sweatpants, freeing his cock—thick, hard, fucking perfect.
I stroke him, loving his groan, his forehead pressing against mine.
“Slow,” he says, voice strained. “I want to feel every fucking inch of you.”
His words ignite me, and as he positions himself, his cock brushing my entrance, I lock eyes with him, his gaze burning into mine. The world narrows to just us, the heat of his body, the weight of this moment.
“Yes, please fuck me,” I beg, my voice raw, desperate, a plea that spills from somewhere deep. Our eyes stay fused, his darkening with a hunger that makes my pussy clench, and he slides inside me, slow and deep, filling me completely.
I gasp, my nails digging into his shoulders, and he stills, eyes locked on mine, letting me adjust.
“So fucking tight,” he murmurs, and it’s not just dirty—it’s like I’m more than he expected. We move, deep and steady, every thrust pulling moans from my throat, every kiss stealing my breath. My head’s screaming: Don’t do it. Don’t feel anything. But his hands, his mouth, the way he’s claiming me—it’s tearing me apart. I want to be his, even if it’s just for tonight, and that thought alone could break me.
“Fuck, Bella,” he says, his hands gripping my hips as he thrusts harder. “You’re mine right now.”
I laugh, breathless, because it’s so him—possessive, intense, but there’s a warmth I didn’t expect.
“Keep dreaming, mob boss,” I tease, but my voice cracks, and I’m clinging to him, my pussy tightening around him. “Where’s my green dildo, by the way? You confiscated it?”
He freezes mid-thrust, then laughs, a real laugh that shakes his chest and makes my heart flip.
“Fuck that plastic shit,” he says, grinning. “No dildo. Just my cock, my fingers, my tongue. That’s all I want inside your perfect fucking pussy.”
Heat floods me, his words hitting something primal.
“Possessive bastard,” I say, but I’m laughing, loving how he wants me, only me. “Say it again.”
“You’re mine,” he growls, thrusting deeper, his voice raw. “My cock inside you, my hands on you, my fucking everything.”
I shatter, screaming as I come, my pussy clenching around him, and he follows, spilling inside me with a groan that feels like he’s giving me something real.
We collapse, tangled and sweaty, his arms around me, my head on his chest. His heartbeat thuds under my ear, steady and grounding, and for a moment, I let myself sink into it, my body sated, my mind quiet.
But then—a sharp, muffled sound cuts through the haze.
A voice. Low and cold, drifting from inside my own head, threading through my thoughts like a ghost.
Irina.
My body goes rigid in Konstantin’s arms, every nerve screaming, Run .
I glance at him, his eyes half-closed, drifting to sleep, his arms still wrapped around me, holding me close. It’s different—this tenderness, this quiet intimacy, like he’s letting me see a piece of him no one else gets.
His breath slows, warm against my hair, and for a fleeting second, I want to stay here, safe in this moment, pretending the world outside doesn’t exist. But no, I didn’t tell him—couldn’t—because Irina’s threat was clear: one word to Konstantin, and Julian and Lila are dead.
I’m not safe here, not in this bed, not in this house, not with him.
I’m a fucking pawn, caught between a contract and a psychopath, and the rule— Do not fall in love with him —is a cruel joke when I’m already drowning in him.