Chapter Eighteen - Aleksandr
I’m reviewing accounts at nine in the morning when Elena appears in my office doorway.
She’s wearing the silk robe I’ve seen her in before, hair loose around her shoulders, bare feet silent on the hardwood. She shouldn’t be awake. Shouldn’t be here. The expression on her face—fury mixed with something raw and wounded—tells me this isn’t a casual visit.
“Elena.” I set down my pen. “It’s late. You should be—”
“Who was she?”
The question stops me cold. “What?”
“The woman. The one who used to share your bed.” She moves into the room, and I see her hands are shaking. “The maid mentioned her. Said I sleep in sheets that used to belong to someone else. That I’m not the first woman you’ve brought to that room.”
Ah. Fuck.
I lean back in my chair, calculating how to handle this.
The truth is simple—there have been women.
Temporary arrangements, physical needs met without emotional attachment.
None of them mattered. None of them slept in my actual bed, in my private quarters.
The maid was either misinformed or deliberately stirring trouble.
Elena’s face tells me explanations won’t help.
“That’s irrelevant,” I say carefully.
“Irrelevant?” Her voice rises. “You demand loyalty from me. Demand obedience, submission, my entire fucking life. You’ve got ghosts of other women lingering in your house, in your bed—”
“There are no ghosts—”
“Don’t.” She’s pacing now. “Don’t lie to me about this. I’ve seen how staff react, heard the whispers. You’ve had women before. Lots of them, probably. And now I’m just—what? The latest acquisition? The one you decided to keep permanently?”
I stand, irritation flaring. “You’re my wife. There’s a difference.”
“Is there? It feels like I’m just property that comes with legal paperwork.” She stops pacing, faces me directly. “You want me to accept this marriage. Want me to be loyal, devoted, yours. You’re a hypocrite. You demand everything while giving nothing.”
“I give you protection—”
“I don’t want your fucking protection!” The words explode out of her. “I want—” She stops, chest heaving. “I don’t know what I want, but it’s not this. It’s not being compared to women you’ve fucked before, wondering if every touch is something you did with them first, if I’m just—”
She’s jealous.
The realization hits with unexpected force. Elena Lawrence—Elena Sharov—is standing in my office at two in the morning, jealous over women who meant nothing, who never came close to what she is.
Something dark and possessive unfurls in my chest.
“You’re jealous,” I say quietly.
“I’m angry.”
“You’re both.” I move around the desk, closing the distance. “You’re angry that I had a life before you. That other women existed. That you’re not the first.”
“Stop—”
“You are the first, Elena. The first one who matters. The first one I married. The first one I kept.” I’m closer now, watching her pulse jump in her throat. “Every other woman was temporary. Forgettable. You’re permanent.”
“That doesn’t make it better,” she whispers. “That makes it worse.”
“Why?”
“I hate what you’ve done, what you represent, how you’ve taken everything from me. I should be relieved that this is just—just a transaction. That you don’t actually want me beyond ownership.”
“Who said I don’t want you?”
Her breath catches. “You sleep on the couch. You barely touch me. You maintain this careful distance like—”
“Like I’m exercising restraint,” I interrupt. “Like I’m giving you time to adjust before I take what’s mine. Like I’m trying to be patient when patience isn’t something I’m good at.”
I’m directly in front of her now. Close enough to see her pupils dilate, to smell the faint scent of soap from her evening shower, to feel the heat radiating off her skin.
“I don’t want your patience,” she says, voice shaking. “I don’t want anything from you.”
“Liar.”
“I’m not—”
“You are.” I reach out, grip her chin, force her to meet my eyes.
“You want me to want you. Want proof that this isn’t just strategy, that you matter beyond legal contracts and territorial alliances.
You’re jealous because you think other women had something you don’t. When the truth is the opposite.”
“That’s not—”
“Prove it, then. Push me away. Tell me to leave and mean it.”
She stares at me, fury and confusion warring across her face. Her hands come up, press against my chest. For a moment I think she’ll actually do it—actually shove me back and end this.
She doesn’t push. Just rests her palms there, feeling my heartbeat, her breathing rapid and uneven.
“I hate you,” she whispers.
“I know.” I release her chin, only to tangle my hand in her hair instead. “Hate me all you want. It changes nothing.”
The tension snaps.
I don’t know who moves first. Doesn’t matter. My mouth is on hers, hard and demanding, swallowing her gasp. Her hands fist in my shirt instead of pushing away, pulling me closer even as she makes a sound that might be protest.
I back her against the desk, hands on her waist, lifting her onto it with one motion. She gasps into my mouth but doesn’t fight, doesn’t push away. Her legs part automatically, letting me step between them.
I pull back just enough to look at her. Her lips are swollen, hair mussed from my hands, the robe gaping open to reveal the nightgown underneath. She’s breathing hard, eyes bright with something that isn’t fear.
“Last chance,” I tell her. “Tell me no and I’ll walk away.”
Her jaw sets. Defiant even now.
Control shatters completely.
I kiss her again, rougher this time. My hands find the tie of her robe, pull it loose. The fabric falls open and I push it off her shoulders, leaving her in just the thin nightgown. My palms slide up her thighs, pushing the silk higher, feeling her shiver under my touch.
“Aleksandr—” My name comes out breathless, uncertain.
“Elena.” I grip her hips, pull her to the edge of the desk so she feels exactly how much I want this. Want her. “Still hate me?”
“Yes.” Except her hands are in my hair now, pulling me back down.
I kiss her throat, her collarbone, anywhere I can reach while my hands map her body through thin silk. She arches into the touch, a small sound escaping that’s definitely not protest.
“Good,” I murmur against her skin. “Hold on to that hate. Use it.”
My hand slides between her legs, finding her already wet through the fabric. She gasps, hips jerking forward involuntarily.
“You hate me,” I say, thumb pressing against her through silk, “but your body knows better.”
“That’s not—” Her words dissolve into a moan when I push the fabric aside, fingers finding bare skin.
She’s slick and hot, already swollen with arousal she doesn’t want to admit. I circle her clit slowly, watching her face, cataloging every reaction—the way her mouth falls open, how her thighs tremble, the flush spreading down her neck.
“Look how wet you are,” I murmur, gathering her arousal on my fingers, letting her feel what her body is doing. “All this, and you still claim you don’t want me.”
“I don’t.” She gasps when I push one finger inside her, her walls clenching immediately around the intrusion.
“Liar.” I add a second finger, feeling how tight she is, how her body yields despite her protests. “Your cunt is telling a different story.”
She makes a sound between a sob and a moan, hips moving against my hand despite herself. I curl my fingers, finding that spot inside that makes her whole body jerk.
“There,” I say, stroking deliberately. “Right there. Feel that?”
“Please—” She doesn’t even know what she’s asking for.
“Please what? Please stop?” I pull my fingers almost all the way out. “Or please don’t stop?”
“Don’t—” Her hands fly to my shoulders, nails digging in. “Don’t stop.”
Victory surges through me. “Say it again.”
“Don’t stop.” Her voice breaks. “Please, don’t stop.”
I reward her honesty by returning my fingers to that spot inside her, thumb circling her clit in steady rhythm. Her legs shake on either side of me, body tensing as pleasure builds.
“That’s it,” I growl against her ear. “Take what you need. Show me how much you hate me.”
She comes with a sharp cry, inner walls pulsing around my fingers, thighs clamping tight around my hand. I work her through it, prolonging every wave until she’s shaking and gasping my name.
Before she can fully recover, I withdraw my fingers and work my belt open. Her eyes widen when she hears the clink of metal, the rasp of my zipper.
“Wait—”
“No.” I grip her hips, pull her to the very edge of the desk. “You want to know if those other women meant anything? You want proof you matter more?”
I position myself at her entrance, the head of my cock already slick from her arousal.
“I’m going to fuck you right here, on this desk, so every time you walk past this room you remember who you belong to.” I push forward slowly, feeling her cunt stretch around me. “There won’t be any doubt left.”
She’s impossibly tight, her body resisting even as it yields. I go slowly despite every instinct screaming to bury myself in one thrust. Watch her face as I fill her inch by inch, her expression shifting from shock to overwhelmed to something that looks almost like relief.
When I’m fully seated inside her, I pause. Let her adjust. Let us both feel this—the absolute claim of it, the finality.
“Still hate me?” I ask, voice strained.
Her hands are clutching my shoulders, holding me close rather than pushing away.
I pull back and thrust forward, not gentle but not brutal. Finding a rhythm that makes her gasp, that has her hips tilting to take me deeper despite herself.
“Good.” I grip her thigh, hitch her leg higher around my waist, changing the angle so I’m hitting that spot inside her with every stroke. “Hate me while I make you come on my cock.”
“God!” Her head falls back, throat exposed, completely vulnerable.
I lean down and bite the exposed skin, marking her, while my hips maintain that steady, relentless rhythm. She’s so wet I can hear it, the obscene sound of my cock sliding in and out of her adding to the symphony of gasps and moans filling my office.
“Feel that?” I growl against her throat. “Feel how perfectly you take me? Like your body was made for this.”
“Shut up!” The words have no heat, just desperate need.
“Make me.” I thrust harder, deeper, feeling her walls flutter around me. “Come on, Elena. Show me how much you hate me.”
Her orgasm hits without warning, her whole body going rigid before convulsing around me. The pulsing of her cunt drags me over the edge with her. I bury myself as deep as I can go and come hard, filling her, marking her from the inside out.
For several seconds we just stay like that—her trembling and gasping, me buried inside her, both of us breathing like we’ve run miles.
Reality crashes back in slowly.
Elena’s hands are still clutching my shoulders, but her grip has loosened. Her eyes are glazed, unfocused, like she’s not entirely sure what just happened.
I should say something. Should acknowledge what we’ve just done, what it means.
Instead, I pull out slowly, watching her flinch at the loss. My cum is already leaking out of her, obscene and possessive and undeniable proof of what just occurred.[10]
She makes a small sound, reaches down instinctively like she’s going to… what? Clean herself? I catch her wrist.
“Leave it.” My voice is rougher than intended. “I want you to feel it. Want you to lie in our bed knowing what we just did.”
Horror and arousal war across her face. “That’s—”
“Honest.” I release her wrist, step back, already tucking myself away and refastening my pants. “No more pretending this is just obligation or legal contract. We both wanted that.”
Tears gather in her eyes. Not from pain—from the truth of it. From having to acknowledge what she can’t deny.
“That was my first time,” she murmurs, and it’s so quiet I nearly miss it.
I grin. Can’t help myself. “Oh, so I’m your first?”
“Yes.”
“Good. You’ll never want anyone but me, now.”
“Asshole,” she whispers, but doesn’t turn away.
“I know.” I kiss her once, brief and possessive. “Now go to bed. We’ll deal with this in the morning.”
I turn and walk out before she can respond. Before I do something stupid like apologize or explain or try to make this gentler than it was.
The door closes behind me with a soft click.
I stand in the hallway, trying to get my breathing under control, my hands still shaking slightly from the intensity of it.
What the fuck did I just do?
I lost control. Completely. Crossed every line I’d drawn for myself about patience and strategy and giving her time to adjust.
The worst part?
I’m not sorry.
I’m shaken by how good it felt. How right. How desperately I wanted her response—not submission, but active participation. Her hands in my hair, her legs around my waist, her body meeting mine thrust for thrust.
That’s what I wanted. What I still want.