Chapter 17 —Eva
I lay on my side, fingers clutching the sheets against my chest as my heart hammered loudly. A wave of shame washed over me, reminding me of the mess I’d just made. I couldn’t bring myself to look at the man who’d taken my innocence, the man who’d made a woman out of me.
The silence was awkward and seemed to stretch for eternity. I heard him rise from the bed on the other side, but I didn’t turn around. Even after he picked up his clothes from the floor and headed out, I still didn’t move.
When I heard the door close after he’d left the room, I closed my eyes, hating myself for falling for his charms. Of all people on this earth to give my virginity to, I’d chosen Demyon Tarasov, a brutal killer with no shred of humanity.
What a grave mistake!
The worst part was that I couldn’t blame him for anything because he didn’t force himself on me. The man asked for my permission, and I willingly gave my consent. I was the only one to blame here.
My grip tightened around the sheets as I felt my heart shattering. The memory of my own moans and the crazy things I’d said in the heat of the moment would haunt me for a long time.
I regretted giving in to my desire; it was foolish of me to have let him hit it. My first time was supposed to be memorable; it was supposed to be something I’d cherish for as long as I lived.
How was I supposed to cherish this memory when the man who’d taken my innocence was the same one who kidnapped me?
While I was beating myself up and thinking about how stupid I was, a blunt voice in my head shunned me out of the blue.
Oh, please, stop pretending you didn’t have the greatest time of your life!
That statement struck me like an arrow to the heart. As harsh as the voice was, it wasn’t wrong—I just wasn’t ready to dwell on the good part of this whole situation.
Your anger about what happened won’t change the fact that Demyon handled you like a real man, said the voice. He touched you the way you wanted to be touched. That man made a woman out of you, and you enjoyed every bit of it—oh, have you forgotten how you moaned his name?
I tried to push the voice to the back of my mind, but that pesky little thing wouldn’t shut the fuck up. Thanks to its constant yapping, I found myself reminiscing on the sex and how good it had felt.
I spent the whole night replaying the scene over and over again in my head. Even though he was long gone, the aroma of his cologne still lingered like a ghost I couldn’t shake off. His scent clung to my sheets, a constant reminder of his touches and kisses.
Unable to sleep, I tossed and turned on the bed, my mind reeling with the possibilities of what might mean for both of us. We’d crossed a line, and there was no going back now.
I recalled the taste of his lips on mine, the feeling of his tongue on my cunt, and the way his hands owned every inch of my body. Demyon was an experienced lover who knew exactly how to please a woman.
He ignited a fire in me that had refused to go out, no matter how hard I tried to quench it. The man was good with his tongue and even better with his hard, veiny cock.
Fuck, it was huge!
I was inexperienced with these things, but to me, that size was big—and long too. In fact, it was so long that I felt it deep in my stomach after my pussy was stretched out to accommodate him.
It was as if a veil had been lifted from my face, and now my eyes were wide open. I hadn’t realized this was what I’d been missing until he showed me.
I pressed a soft pillow to my chest when I remembered the electric sensation of my dam shattering.
Damn!
I bit my lower lip, recalling how my legs trembled beneath me and the way liquid squirted from my cunt like water from a fountain. I remembered feeling as though I was losing my mind. The sweetness was sensational and overwhelming—yet I didn’t want it to end.
Demyon had taken his time with me—he explored my body, testing what worked for me and what didn’t.
To be honest, I was a bit skeptical about letting him hit at first because I thought he’d destroy my pussy without mercy.
It was my first time, and considering how violent he was, I was afraid he wouldn’t go easy on me.
I was wrong!
If I were to be sincere with myself, I’d say that Demyon didn’t fuck me. He made love to me. And that was the main issue. If he hadn’t been gentle, if he hadn’t taken his time to get me ready both physically and psychologically, it would’ve been a lot easier to hate him.
But he hadn’t fallen into that trap.
He’d handled me with care and caution, like I was a delicate thing that would break if he moved too hard. Demyon practically worshipped my body, his touch slow and reverent. If his plan was to leave a lasting impression on me, then fortunately for him, it was working.
Demyon had branded me as his own, and maybe that’s why, no matter how hard, I couldn’t stop thinking about him.
I was ashamed of myself because after claiming for a long time that I hated him, I still let him hit it. And…I enjoyed every bit of it. But that wasn’t even the worst part; the worst part was that now, my body craved more of him.
However, before going to bed that night, I convinced myself that what happened was a mistake. I told myself that he tricked me—he manipulated me with his words and exploited my vulnerability.
I managed to convince myself that it was a mistake, one I wasn’t going to repeat again.
***
The next day, I refused to leave my room, thinking it was business as usual. The plan was to remain behind these four walls and have all my meals that day without setting foot outside my door.
I wanted to go back to avoiding him like the plague.
However, to my surprise, breakfast wasn’t served at the usual time, and I woke up this morning so hungry. I thought maybe there was some sort of delay, or maybe a maid would soon come knocking on my door.
I was wrong. No one came. And the longer I waited, the more the hours ticked by.
By noon, after I couldn’t take it anymore, I decided to go check on the chef myself. The hallway outside my room was deserted: no guards, no routine movements whatsoever.
Quietly, I walked through the corridor, a hand on my growling belly. I headed downstairs, my bare feet padding across the floor as I made my way to the kitchen.
As I neared the entrance, the aroma of roasted garlic and fried chicken drifted into my nostrils. My mouth watered, and my stomach let out a low rumble as if it were crying for help.
When I strolled into the kitchen, the chef, an elderly woman named Olga, was standing at the stove with her back toward the entrance. She was humming a tune as she stirred the soup in a pot.
“Hey, Olga,” I greeted her, wiping a palm across one side of my face.
Startled, she flinched and turned around to face me with a hand on her chest. “Miss Eva. You scared me,” she said, her voice thick with a Russian accent.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to,” I answered, inhaling the sweet aroma that filled the air. “Hmmm. Smells so good.”
Her lips curled into a faint grin. “Thank you.”
“What’re you cooking?” I stepped forward, helping myself to an apple from a small basket of fruits on the counter.
She mentioned a local Russian dish that I couldn’t dare pronounce lest I bite my tongue.
“I can’t wait to taste it,” I said, munching on the apple.
“You must be starving,” Olga said, watching me closely. “I’m sorry you weren’t served breakfast in your room.” She paused, letting the words settle for a moment. “Demyon’s orders.”
I shook my head, murmuring under my breath. “Of course. Why am I not surprised?”
“He means well,” she said.
I hesitated, pushing my head back, shocked to hear her defend him. “Oh, really?”
“Yes,” Olga replied. “You should walk around the house sometimes. Blend in with the rest of us.”
I placed my elbows on the kitchen island, my palms resting under my chin.
She returned to focusing on the food on the stove. “I haven’t had the chance to ask about your trip to Mother Russia.” She glanced at me.
“Oh, it was, uh…it was….” Images of the ambush flashed in my head, the sound of rapid gunshots ringing in the back of my mind. “It was….” Then came the memory of our kiss. “…eventful.”
“St. Petersburg is a beautiful place, yes?” She smiled at me.
I nodded.
“Did you know you’re the first woman he’s ever taken on any of his trips?” she asked, stealing a glance at me like this piece of information was supposed to make me feel special.
Honestly, though, the revelation did spark my curiosity. “Is that so?” I asked, indulging her.
“Mm-hm,” she answered. “Demyon’s a busy man; he hardly has time for women.”
Her words thawed something frozen inside me, but I didn’t let myself get carried away. “So…he doesn’t…have a…girlfriend?” I asked, then quickly added, “I mean, you said it yourself that he doesn’t have time for women.”
“None that I know of.” She turned off the stove and faced me. “He doesn’t stay with one woman for long, so it’s hard to keep track.”
That statement struck me harder than I cared to admit. Olga just implied that Demyon wasn’t just a cruel crime boss; he was also a player.
The conversation later shifted to a few random topics, which we discussed at length over lunch.
Later that night, I was watching TV in the living room when he returned from work, exhausted. His tie sagged around his neck, his jacket draped over his right arm, and his shoes scuffed against the polished floor.
He stopped in his tracks when he saw me sitting on the couch. Unfazed by his presence, I lifted my head and met his gaze but said nothing.
“Well, good evening to you too,” he greeted me, his voice laced with sarcasm.
Still no response.
He rubbed his eyes and walked away, heading toward the curved staircase.
“It didn’t mean anything,” I said, my tone flat and devoid of emotion.
He stopped and then turned around, his eyes locked on me.
I rose to my feet, taking slow steps toward him. “The sex last night was a mistake. And I regret it.”
Silence.
I halted in front of him, arms crossed over my chest, arrogance etched on my face. “It was a one-time thing, and it won’t happen again.”
He wore a smug smirk. “Is that so?”
I straightened my spine and swallowed hard, trying to look and sound as confident as possible. “Yes. It is.”
He took a step closer, his eyes darting across my body. “I find it hilarious how you say something and your body language tells me something entirely different.”
I locked my jaw, struggling to keep a straight face.
He studied me for a moment, then added with a confidence that made me question myself, “You will crave me again, Eva.” He leaned in, his fresh breath warm against my skin. “And when you do…I’ll be here.”
My brows knitted together. As annoying as his claim was, deep down, I knew he was telling the truth—and it infuriated me the more.
He flashed that pesky little smirk at me one last time before heading for the stairs. Standing there alone, I realized it wasn’t just my body this man was unraveling. It was my mind, my soul, and every piece that had once belonged to me and me alone.
This was a problem. A huge one, at that.