Chapter 8 Ilya #2
I should close it. I should walk away. But my hands are already moving, touching the fabric, learning her preferences. She likes simple things, mostly—the majority of her underwear are black and cotton, including the bras.
But there are a few other pieces, things that make my gut tighten and my blood heat both at the feeling of them in my hands and the thought of her wearing them for anyone else.
There’s a sheer bodysuit with boning and floral details on the lace. A burgundy negligee with a bow at the breasts and panels of lace. A corset-style bra with matching black silk panties.
I can imagine her in them—imagine being the one who gets to see her dressed in silk and lace, the one she chooses to wear them for.
I intend to be that person. I will be the only person.
I close my fist around the panties, my heart beating hard. There’s a vintage perfume bottle on top of her dresser, and as I take the panties, I reach for it, squeezing the small pump and letting a mist of it spray out into the air. I suck in a deep breath, drawing the scent of her into my lungs.
I've tortured men without flinching. I've made decisions that affected hundreds of lives without hesitation. But standing here in Mara's bedroom, surrounded by the intimate details of her life, I feel unmoored. Desperate. Like I'm drowning.
I make sure everything is exactly as I found it, and close the drawer. My hands are shaking slightly now, and I clench them into fists, trying to regain control.
And then I go back to the bed.
I never knew shame and desire could be so intoxicating.
I know what I’m doing is wrong, that I’m violating boundaries I’ve never crossed before, but I can’t stop myself.
I stare down at the mattress, at the place where Mara sleeps, where she touches herself…
where I watched her come, and I reach for the front of my pants, undoing my belt and my zipper.
I’m so hard that my cock springs free instantly, the tip already so wet with pre-cum that the cool air is a shock to my heated flesh.
I move to kneel on the bed, the scent of her perfume still in my nostrils, and I stare down at the space in front of me as I take the hand holding her panties and wrap it around my cock.
I’ve never done anything like this before, either. The fabric feels good, slick and cool against my straining length, and I groan aloud as I start to stroke. I imagine her beneath me, spread open and wanting, watching as I tease her by touching myself while making her wait.
Except I’d never be able to make her wait for long.
I lean forward, as if she’s underneath me. I imagine spreading her legs wider, making room for myself between them. I brace on my other forearm, angling my cock as if seeking out her dripping, eager hole, and then I thrust my hips forward, fucking my fist as if I’m fucking her for the first time.
I can only imagine what a picture I would make if someone walked in, stretched over her bed, jerking off with my face close to her pillow, breathing in her scent.
It’s forbidden, taboo, so fucking thrilling that I know I won’t last long.
I knew I wouldn’t, the first time with her.
I’m going to come soon, I won’t be able to help it.
She’s so tight, so hot, so fucking wet for me…
The orgasm comes hard and fast, my cock spurting with a force that makes me moan aloud as I wrap the panties around my pulsing cockhead and catch the jets of cum.
My hips thrust erratically as I fill her panties, as I fill her, and her name escapes my lips on a ragged breath as my head spins with the intensity of the pleasure.
I can still smell her—her perfume, her shampoo, the warmth of her skin. I sink my hips into the bed, fucking the soaked panties as I shudder through the aftershocks, not wanting to pull out of her. Not wanting this to be over.
The clarity that comes with the end of my orgasm is like a cold splash of water. I blink rapidly, sliding off of the bed and shoving the cum-soaked panties into my pocket as I hurriedly tuck myself away and fix my jeans. I need to leave soon.
But there was one more thing.
I walk to where I left my lockpicks, and pick up the flower I brought with me.
A black rose that I asked for the thorns to be trimmed from, beautiful and dark, like her, like the silken fall of her hair that I’m aching to touch.
I leave it on her pillow, smoothing out her sheets so that the evidence of my transgression is gone.
Almost as an afterthought, I go and crack her window, just to make it a little more confusing as to how her admirer made it into her apartment.
I have a feeling that this might prompt her to call the police, whereas the other gifts didn’t. But they won’t find anything amiss.
And although I know this should be the only time I trespass here, I have a feeling I won’t be able to stop myself from doing it again.
—
Two nights later, I give in to the temptation to return.
I watched her close the curtains, watched the lights go out, and I wanted to see her so badly I ached. Not just my cock, which never seems to soften for long, but all of me.
I needed to see her again. Closer this time. As close as I can manage without revealing myself fully just yet.
It’s a step too far. I know it is. But I can't stop myself.
That control that I fought so hard to keep is slipping, badly.
It’s after one in the morning when I let myself in again.
Her locks were changed, I can see the telltale signs of it, but I pick them just as easily, and slip through her apartment soundlessly, like a ghost. The space is dark except for the streetlight filtering through the windows, casting everything in shadow.
I swear I can hear her breathing when I reach the bedroom door. My heart is pounding so hard I'm sure she'll hear it, sure she'll wake up and scream and this will all come crashing down. But I push the door open anyway, slowly and carefully, and I step inside.
She's asleep. The sight of her steals the breath from my lungs.
She's curled on her left side, one hand tucked under her pillow and the other reaching out to hold a second pillow against her chest. Her hair is spread across the pillowcase, stark against the white fabric.
Her face is peaceful in sleep, but as I watch, her expression shifts, her brow furrowing slightly, her lips moving in some silent dream conversation.
She makes a small sound, something between a sigh and a whimper, and my hands clench at my sides with the effort it takes not to go to her. I want to touch her so badly it hurts, a torture more exquisite than anything I’ve ever inflicted on anyone else.
I want to own every part of her, even her dreams.
I watch the rise and fall of her chest. I watch the way her fingers curl and uncurl against the pillow. I watch the small movements of her eyes beneath her lids, the way her breathing changes as she shifts from one dream to another.
She murmurs something I can't quite make out, and I want to lean closer. Possessiveness washes over me, a dark satisfaction at being her, watching her in her sleep, an intimacy I’ve shared with no one else.
She shifts again, rolling slightly toward me, and for a heart-stopping moment I think she's waking up.
But her eyes stay closed, and after a moment she settles, her breathing evening out again.
I should leave. I've already stayed too long. But I can't make myself move.
She's restless tonight. I can see it in the way she moves, the way her expression keeps shifting. Something is troubling her dreams, and I want to know what it is. Want to hunt it down and destroy it, whatever it is that won't let her rest.
I stand there for a long time just watching her breathe, learning the rhythm of her, the patterns of her sleep. And I know, with absolute certainty, that I'm completely lost.
I've always been called a monster. My father called me that with approval. My enemies have called me that before they died. Even my allies, the men who work for me and profit from my violence, they call me that when they think I can't hear.
And they're right. I am a monster. I've done monstrous things, and I'll do more before I'm gone. I’ve never cared that others think that of me.
When it comes to her, I don’t care, either. I'd be any kind of monster if it meant I could have her.
She's mine. She doesn't know it yet, but she is.
She's been mine since that moment in Boston when our eyes met across the sidewalk.
From that moment it became clear that I was never going to let her go.
In the end, she'll be mine completely, the way she already is in my head, in every dark corner of my soul.
Finally, as her sleep turns more restless, I force myself to leave before she wakes up and sees me there. I move through her apartment one last time, touching nothing, leaving no trace. At the door, I pause and look back, memorizing the feeling of being here, of being close to her.
Then I slip out into the hallway and disappear.
—
The next morning, while I’m taking a remote meeting, Svetlana calls me.
Seeing her name on my personal phone surprises me. She seems to subscribe to—or at least have been instructed to follow—the idea that she should play hard to get and I should chase her. She rarely calls or texts me, and when she does contact me, it’s usually through someone else.
I also haven’t heard from her since the gala.
I ignore her the first time, and the second. But when she calls a third time, I excuse myself from the video call and step into the hallway.
"What?" I don't bother with pleasantries.
"Ilya." Her voice is cool. "We need to discuss the arrangements."
I reach up and pinch the bridge of my nose. She doesn’t need to elaborate on what she means by that. I’m very well aware of our arrangement, and the fact that she’s been expecting a ring on her finger for a few months now. I think she thought I’d do it at the Christmas gala we attended.
But I hadn’t really wanted to go through with the marriage then, and I have absolutely no intention of it now.
I won’t insult Mara by asking her to be my mistress.
She’ll be mine, entirely and completely, and I won’t ask her to share me with a wife.
I don’t want any other woman. No woman could make me come the way just watching Mara, just being in her bedroom with her lingerie in my fist, can.
No flesh and blood woman compares to just the sight of the one I want.
My jaw tightens. "There's nothing to discuss. We’ll talk about it when I get back to Boston.”
I’m going to end it, but I know it’s to my benefit not to do it yet. Ending it right now would mean dealing with politics that would pull me away from New York and Mara.
"My father disagrees. He's expecting an announcement within the month. He was expecting one last month.”
"Then he'll continue to be disappointed."
There's a pause. When Svetlana speaks again, her voice has an edge to it. "You agreed to this, Ilya. My family is counting on it. You can't just—"
"I can do whatever I want," I interrupt. "I’ll talk to you when I come back to Boston. I’m dealing with business here. That’s what your father wants you to marry me for, isn’t it? My business connections? So let me work, and we’ll talk about timing when I’m back.”
"He won't accept that."
"He'll have to."
There’s another pause, longer this time. "Is there someone else?"
The blunt question catches me off guard.
Svetlana is many things—cold, calculating, ambitious—but she's not stupid. Of course she's noticed the change in me, the distractedness the way I've been pulling away from the arrangement even more so than usual. I was detached before, but more in the way that men of my status often are. Marriages are for power, not love, so I’m sure she didn’t expect deep affection. But I also can imagine she’s picked up on the difference.
I let out a sharp breath. "That's none of your concern.”
"It is if it affects our agreement."
“We’ll talk about the agreement when I’m back. Tell your father everything is fine.”
That’s a blatant lie, but I can’t have the distraction of managing him right now. This is something I can put off, deter until I’m ready to deal with it, and I will.
Because putting distance between myself and Mara right now is not an option.
I can hear her breathing on the other end of the line, can imagine the calculations running through her head.
Svetlana doesn't love me—she never has. This marriage was always about power, about position, about the strategic advantage of combining our families.
But she's proud, and she won't take rejection well.
Thankfully, I’m not rejecting her just yet.
“When are you coming back?” she asks finally.
“I don’t know. I’ll let you know when I do.” I hang up before she can respond.
The meeting I left is still going on. We were discussing quarterly projections, market expansions, all the mundane details of running a legitimate business empire that overlays the filthier one. The empire I could present to Mara as a front for who I really am.
But in time, I want her to know all of me. Eventually, she'll know everything.
And I'll make sure she understands that it doesn't matter. That nothing matters except the fact that she's mine, that there's no escaping what we are to each other.
There’s no escaping me.