Chapter 25
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Calina
When we finally get back home, Viktor is already waiting in the foyer, his face grim and tense. He gives Maxim a small nod and his eyes flick to me briefly before looking away.
After we've exchanged pleasantries, I don’t linger. “I’ll go change,” I murmur, heading upstairs.
Instead of going straight to the bedroom, I pause at the top of the stairs. I can hear their voices drifting up from the hallway below. I creep closer to the railing, careful not to make a sound.
“…swept your office looking for any recording devices,” Viktor is saying. “Found none. But I did find something else.”
“What?” Maxim’s voice is sharp.
“Another fingerprint. One that doesn’t belong to you, me, or Dmitri.”
Maxim curses viciously. “Who the fuck does it belong to?”
“We’re running it now. We should know before morning.”
I can no longer hear what they say after that, as they walk away from earshot. The other fingerprint Viktor is talking about could be mine, I need to let Maxim know before he finds out himself.
After a while, I see Viktor leave and Maxim head toward his study. My heart pounds. I turn around and quietly follow him.
When I reach the doorway, he’s already inside, checking his desk and drawers with angry movements. He looks up and sees me standing there.
“What are you doing here?” he asks, voice edged with irritation.
I swallow hard. “I have a confession.”
He straightens slowly, eyes narrowing. “What is it?”
I step inside, twisting my fingers together. “The other fingerprint… it might be mine.”
The silence that follows at first is deafening. And then, “What the fuck are you talking about?” His voice is dangerously low.
I force myself to meet his gaze. “A few days ago, after you caught me in here… I came back later. I went through your desk. I wasn’t spying on you, I swear.
There was something that caught my attention the first time, those documents about the orphanages.
The donations. I didn’t get a good look before you walked in, so…
my curiosity won. I just wanted to understand why you were doing it. That’s all.”
Maxim stares at me, fury flashing across his face. “I told you this room was off limits. Why would you go behind my back?”
“I know,” I say quickly. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to betray you or dig up secrets. I just… I saw those papers and I wanted to know more about you. About that side of you.”
Maxim folds his arms across his broad chest, leaning against the desk as he studies me with an unreadable expression. The tension in the room is still thick.
“So… what did you find?” he asks.
I blink, caught completely off guard. Out of all the questions I expected, anger, accusations, not this.
“What?”
“You said you wanted to understand my affiliation with the orphanages,” he continues, voice calm but intense. “So tell me. What did you find?”
I swallow, trying to gather my thoughts. “Well… I found out that you donate large sums of money to them. Anonymously. Not just one orphanage, but several.”
He doesn’t react much, just nods slightly. “And? Is that all?”
“Yes,” I say, still surprised by how quietly he’s taking this. “That’s all I was interested in.”
He watches me for a long moment. “You look surprised.”
“I am,” I admit. “Of all the things… I didn’t expect someone like you to have such a strong interest in orphanages specifically. I could understand donating to charity or attending fundraisers, but this feels… personal. Like it matters to you.”
The silence stretches between us as he moves to sit on the edge of his desk, closer to me now. His gaze on me.
I take a small step forward. “Is it personal to you? Why? Not that it’s a bad thing. I actually really like that you do this. It’s… kind. But is there a reason?”
Maxim lets out a deep breath, looking down at the floor for a second before meeting my eyes again.
“Because I was an orphan.”
The words hit me like a quiet storm. I’ve heard rumors, whispers that he was a bastard child, raised outside the main bloodline, but hearing him confirm it so plainly shocks me into stillness.
I stare at him, my heart twisting in my chest. This powerful, feared man… had once been a child with no family. No one to protect him. The thought makes something soft and aching bloom inside me.
He gives a small, humorless smile. “Then I was adopted.”
I stand there, completely still, as Maxim begins to speak.
He tells me how he grew up with nothing, no parents, no family, no one to care whether he lived or died. How he was passed from one orphanage to another, always the outsider, always the boy who didn’t belong.
His voice is low, steady, but I hear the weight behind every word. The loneliness. The hunger. The anger that forged him into the man standing before me.
He tells me how even after being adopted by a Pakhan, he wasn't fully accepted in the Bratva, because he isn't pure blood.
“Dmitri and Viktor came from the same life,” he continues. “We got separated after I was adopted. I found them after they had turned eighteen, living on the streets, fighting to survive. I gave them work. A purpose.”
Tears blur my vision. For the first time, I see past the ruthless Pakhan. Beneath it all is a man who once was a scared, abandoned little boy.
A man who turned his pain into power and still reaches back to help children who remind him of who he used to be.
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper, my voice cracking. “I had no idea.”
He shakes his head immediately. “I don’t want your pity, Calina. The last thing I want from you is pity. Everything I went through, every single thing I suffered made me into the man I am today.”
“I wouldn’t dare pity you,” I say softly, stepping closer. “I’m just… glad I know this part of you now. Thank you for sharing it with me.”
“You're my wife, you should know about my past.”
“I'm sorry I went through your things in your absence.”
A small smirk tugs at his lips. “Not only did you go through my stuff, you eavesdropped on my conversation.”
“I was curious. I'm sorry I eavesdropped on your conversation.”
He chuckles darkly. “Curiosity killed the cat.”
“But satisfaction brought it back.”
His smirk deepens. He beckons me with two fingers. “Come here.”
My heart stutters, but I obey, walking until I’m standing between his spread legs as he sits on the edge of the desk. We’re so close. The heat of his body radiates into mine.
His hands settle on my hips, pulling me even closer, until I’m pressed against him.
“You've been such a naughty girl that you deserve to be punished. Turn around.”
I do, facing away from him. He places a hand on my back and gently pushes me forward.
“Touch your toes.”
My breath catches. I bend slowly, reaching for my toes. Wondering what he plans on doing. The short, flimsy dress I’m still wearing rides up high, exposing the curve of my ass and the thin lace of my thong.
I hear his sharp inhale. “Fuck.”
His palm smooths over my exposed cheeks, warm. “I warned you not to come into my office,” he says, voice low and dangerous. “But you did anyway.”
Before I can respond, his hand comes down hard on my right cheek. I jerk forward with a gasp. The sting blooms hot across my skin, sending a rush of heat straight between my legs.
“Hold still,” he growls. “If you move, I start counting from the beginning.”
I bite my lip and stay bent over, thankful for all the yoga that keeps me flexible. His hand comes down again and again, firm, rhythmic spanks that make my ass burn and my pussy throb.
Each strike pulls a soft cry from my throat. I’m dripping, aching, utterly exposed to him.
When he counts to ten, he smooths his palm over the heated skin, almost soothing, then brings his fingers to my soaked crotch.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice thick with satisfaction. “Enjoying your punishment way too much. My wife is such a dirty little girl.”
I whimper, pressing back against his hand, desperate for more.
His fingers hook into the waistband of my panties and slowly slide them to the side, exposing me completely. Cool air brushes against my soaked folds, making me shiver.
He runs two thick fingers along my seam, spreading my wetness from my clit all the way back. The slow, deliberate stroke makes my thighs tremble.
I whimper, pushing back against his hand, desperate for more friction.
“So fucking wet,” he murmurs, voice dark with approval. “Look at this greedy little pussy dripping for me. You really are enjoying your punishment, aren’t you?”
Without warning, his palm comes down in a sharp slap right against my pussy. The wet sound echoes in the study, and a jolt of sharp pleasure shoots through me. I cry out, my knees buckling slightly.
“Maxim…”
“You’ve been such a bad girl,” he growls, slapping my pussy again, harder this time. “Disobeying me. Sneaking into my office when I told you not to, and eavesdropping on me.”
Each slap sends sparks racing up my spine. The sting mixes with overwhelming pleasure until I’m moaning shamelessly, hips rocking back, chasing his hand.
I’m so wet that every slap makes an obscene sound that should embarrass me, but only makes me wetter.
“You know you’ve been bad, don’t you?” he asks, rubbing slow circles over my throbbing clit.
“Yes,” I gasp. “I’ve been bad… I deserve to be punished.”
“That’s right.” His voice is pure sin. “Hold still for me, baby. Don’t you dare move.”
I hear the sound of his zipper lowering. My heart hammers wildly. Then the heavy, hot weight of his cock slaps against my soaked pussy once, twice, three times, teasing me mercilessly. I’m trembling, barely holding my position.
He grips my hips and finally pushes inside me in one long, deep thrust.
I gasp sharply at the sudden stretch, the way he fills me so completely. He feels even bigger from this angle, pressing against every sensitive spot inside me.
He doesn’t give me time to adjust. He starts slamming into me hard, deep, relentless strokes that make my breasts bounce and my moans turn into broken cries.
“Oh god. Maxim!”
“Fuck, this tight cunt is sucking me in,” he groans, his voice rough. “So fucking wet and hot. You were made to take my cock like this, weren’t you? Bent over like a naughty little wife getting punished.”
“Yes! Yes!”
He keeps a brutal pace, one hand fisted in my hair while the other grips my hip hard enough to bruise. Every thrust hits so deep I see stars.
He brings me right to the edge, my walls fluttering around him, then suddenly stops moving, buried to the hilt. I cry out in frustration, trying to push back, but he holds me still.
“Please,” I sob. “I need to come…”
“Naughty girls don't deserve to come,” he taunts, pulling out almost completely before sliding back in torturously slow.
He does this again and again, bringing me right to the brink, then stopping, leaving me aching and empty. Tears of desperate need spill down my cheeks.
On the final time, when I’m shaking and right on the edge, I scream his name.
“Maxim, please—I can’t—”
He laughs darkly, low and satisfied. “Now you can come.”
He slams back into me hard, fucking me with deep, punishing strokes. The orgasm crashes over me violently.
My whole body jerks and convulses, my walls clamping down around him like a vice as I cry out his name again and again.
He doesn’t stop. He keeps thrusting through my orgasm. “That’s it, baby. Milk my cock. Take every fucking drop like the perfect little wife you are.”
With a deep, guttural groan, he buries himself to the hilt and comes hard, spilling inside me in thick, hot pulses. I come again with him, my body shuddering as he fills me completely.
We stay like that for a long moment, both of us breathing hard. He helps me stand fully, and presses his forehead against my back as we catch our breath.
Then he slowly pulls out of me, making me whimper at the loss. He turns me around gently, one strong arm wrapping around my waist to hold me steady because my legs feel like jelly.
Without a word, he lifts me into his arms, carrying me bridal-style out of the study and up the stairs toward our bedroom.
I rest my head against his chest, listening to the steady, strong beat of his heart.
He doesn’t stop in the bedroom. He carries me straight into the bathroom, setting me down only long enough to turn on the shower.
Warm water cascades down as he helps me out of my dress and panties, then sheds his own clothes. Steam fills the large glass enclosure as he guides me under the spray.
The moment the hot water hits my skin, I sigh in pleasure. Maxim steps in behind me, pulling my back against his chest. He reaches for the shampoo, and I smile softly when I feel his fingers slide into my hair.
He loves washing my hair.
I’ve noticed it more than once now, the way he takes his time, massaging my scalp with slow, firm circles, working the lather through every strand with such care. It feels heavenly. Intimate. I lean back into him, eyes closed.
Maybe from now on, I’ll leave the task of washing my hair entirely to him.
He rinses it thoroughly, then conditions it. And after he's done, he proceeds to wash my body, hands gliding over my shoulders, my breasts, my stomach, and between my thighs with tender reverence.
His aftercare is top-notch. Almost worshipful.
And I find myself yearning for more of his touch already.
In this moment, with his hands in my hair and his heartbeat steady against my back, I realize something dangerous.
I’m starting to fall for my husband.