Chapter 20
Roman
Ihold her gaze a breath longer, bank the urge to touch, and turn on my heel.
Her warm hand, suddenly gripping mine, freezes me.
Turning back to her, eyes narrowed, I drop my gaze to our hands.
She doesn’t let go. She squeezes tighter.
“Is that a thank you?” I ask.
“I’m not sure,” she says, her gaze slightly confused as she searches my eyes.
“Do you want me to touch you, Zoya?”
The air crackles with electricity as she thinks about my question. She has to say yes. If she says no, I walk away and take another shower with my cock in my hand.
Her fingers bite into my palm. She is soft, but the intent is iron. I feel her pulse through the pads of my fingers, and it spikes, quick, defiant.
“Say it,” I murmur. “Or I walk.”
A long beat. Her throat works. Her gaze drops to my mouth, then flicks back to my eyes.
“Here,” she says, barely above a whisper, guiding my hand up. Not to her waist, not to her throat. Her wrist. Bruised. Marked by another man’s hand.
Permission. Specific. Clever.
I accept the inch.
I turn her palm up and cradle the wrist in my hand, my thumb settling over the bloom of red. Heat radiates under thin skin. Her pulse thunders against my fingers, then steadies as I ease pressure and hold.
She doesn’t pull away. She doesn’t push closer.
“You use your words,” I say. “And I decide how much they’re worth.”
A ghost of a smile flickers. Fear and something savage gleam in her eyes. “Erase his imprint on me, Roman.”
My eyebrow arches at the meaning behind her words. I tighten my grip, and she flinches, but I don’t stop until I have done what she asked. She now bears the print of my hand, my touch.
“My imprint,” I say. “Only mine.” I resist the urge to slam her against the reinforced windows and stake my claim where everyone on the grounds can see.
“Yes,” she breathes.
It catches. She is nervous. Unsure. I loosen my hold in response, and the uncertainty hardens to something else.
“Don’t let go.”
My cock stiffens until it aches. “Do you want more, Zoya?”
Her lashes flutter. Pride wars with need. I see the moment she chooses, and my restraint buckles another notch. “Yes,” she whispers, all traces of hesitancy gone.
Taking her at her word, I grip her other wrist and push her back towards the bed, my gaze never leaving hers. “Stop me now, Zoya, or there is no going back. I will own every inch of you.”
“I don’t want to be owned,” she whispers.
“You already are, malyshka. Accept your fate as you say you have with actions, or tell me to stop.”
Her chin tilts, a small rebellion. “Don’t stop.”
I release her wrists and slowly lower the zipper on her hoodie.
We are past the point of no return. No more talking. No more words. I want to savour this without conversation.
I slide it over her shoulders, and it falls to the floor. Her sports bra is next, sliding up over her head, revealing perfect breasts with dusky pink nipples that harden under my gaze. My breath catches as I drink her in. This is different. This is permission. This is surrender.
I remove my jacket, draping it over the chair. Her eyes track every movement, half-lidded with desire but still wary. Good. She shouldn’t trust me completely. Not yet.
I unbuckle my belt, the leather hissing through the loops.
Control. This is about control. Taking one of her wrists, I wrap the belt around and then add the other, buckling it tight enough to restrain her, not too tight to hurt her.
I drop to my knees in front of her, my gaze never leaving her face.
Her bound wrists rest against her stomach, the leather dark against her pale skin.
I want to mark every inch of her, leave my imprint where no other man’s has been.
Her breathing is shallow, chest rising and falling in quick bursts that betray her nervousness.
Hooking my fingers into the waistband of her leggings, I pull them down slowly, revealing the black lace beneath.
She steps out of them, and I toss them aside before rising to my full height, towering over her.
My shirt follows my jacket, and her gaze skates over the tattoos covering my chest and arms. She reaches out with her bound hands, tracing the eagle spreading across my pecs.
I catch her hands and press them against my chest, letting her feel my heartbeat. I guide them lower, over the hard planes of my stomach.
Her fingers tremble against my skin. I want to devour her, consume her until she forgets her own name and remembers only mine. But I wait. I’ve waited years for this moment. I can wait a few seconds more.
I lower her to the bed, her bound wrists above her head. The sight makes my mouth go dry. I kneel between her thighs, hands planted on either side of her head as I lean down, lips hovering just above hers.
“Last chance,” I whisper against her mouth.
Her answer is to lift her head, closing the gap. The kiss is tentative at first, a soft brush of her lips against mine, but it quickly turns desperate. I take control, deepening it, tasting the sweetness of her surrender. She arches beneath me.
I break the kiss to trail my lips down her neck, relishing the soft gasps that escape her. My hands cup her breasts, thumbs grazing over hardened nipples. She writhes, seeking friction where she needs it most.
“Please,” she whispers, and the sound nearly breaks me.
I leave a trail of kisses down her stomach, my hands gripping her thighs as I spread them wider. The black lace is damp, and I hook my fingers into the sides, dragging them down slowly. She lifts her hips to help, and then she’s bare beneath me, vulnerable and perfect.
I lower my head, breathing her in. Her scent drives me wild, and I can’t resist a taste.
The first stroke of my tongue against her core makes her cry out, her bound hands clutching at the sheets above her head.
I hold her thighs apart as I devour her, my tongue circling her clit before dipping inside her.
Her taste is intoxicating, and I groan against her, the vibration making her hips buck against my mouth.
“Roman,” she gasps, her voice breaking on my name.
I press my tongue flat against her, circling her clit with slow, deliberate strokes. I want to watch her fall apart, want to be the reason she comes undone. Her thighs tremble, and I know she’s close. I slide two fingers inside her and thrust deeply.
She’s tight around my fingers, her body clenching as I work her towards release. Her breathing becomes erratic, tiny whimpers escaping with each exhale. I look up at her, taking in the flush spreading across her chest, the way her head is thrown back in abandon.
I twist my fingers, sucking her clit between my lips, and she shatters. Her body arches off the bed, a cry tearing from her throat as she comes around me. I work her through it, easing off when her climax subsides.
Rising, I strip off my pants and then crawl between her open thighs, achingly hard from watching her pleasure. I stroke myself, watching her chest heave with aftershocks. Her eyes flutter open, heavy-lidded and dark with desire. She watches me touch myself, her gaze fixed on mine.
“Tell me you want this,” I demand, my voice rough with restraint.
“I want it,” she breathes, lifting her hips towards me. “I want you.”
I push inside slowly, giving her body time to adjust to my size. The sensation is overwhelming—tight, wet heat enveloping me inch by inch. I grit my teeth against the urge to slam into her, to take what’s mine without mercy. But I won’t hurt her. Not like this.
When I’m fully inside her, I pause, watching her face for signs of discomfort. Her bound wrists flex above her head, and she wraps her legs around my waist, drawing me deeper.
“Move,” she commands, and I obey.
I withdraw almost completely before driving back in, setting a rhythm that has her gasping beneath me. Each thrust feels like claiming territory, marking what belongs to me. Her body yields to mine perfectly, as if made for this—for me.
I lean down to capture one nipple between my lips, sucking hard as I increase my pace. Her moans fill the room, a symphony I’ve waited years to hear. When I feel her tightening around me again, I reach between us to circle her clit with my thumb.
“You are mine, Zoya. No other man will ever see you, have you like this.”
“Roman,” she murmurs, almost sounding like a protest.
It sparks something brutal inside me. I pull out. Her eyes go wide. She gasps when I flip her over and pull her hips up. Her bound wrists settle in front of her as I part her arse cheeks and press my cock back into her hot pussy.
“Are you mine, Zoya?” I ask, slamming into her. “Are you mine, or are you playing a game with me?”
Her hands strain against the belt, leather biting into her pale skin as she claws at the sheets. I watch her struggle, feel her body clench around me. The question hangs between us, and I need her answer more than my next breath.
“Answer me,” I growl, stilling my hips though it costs me everything. The loss of friction is my own torture.
“Yes,” she gasps, arching her back, taking me deeper. “I’m yours. Please, don’t stop.”
The confession tears from her throat, raw and desperate. I heard the conflict in her voice—tomorrow she might fight me again, but tonight, in this bed, she’s surrendered. She’d say anything to feel me move, but I’ll make her mean it.
I reward her with a hard thrust that pulls a cry from her lips. My palm comes down on her arse with a sharp slap, leaving my handprint on her flesh. She shudders beneath me, her moan telling me everything I need to know.
“Mine,” I say, my voice barely recognisable as my fingers dig into her hips. “Say it again.”
“Yours,” she moans, burying her face in the silk sheets. The word hits me like a drug, straight to my veins. She thinks this is her defeat, but I’m the one who has been conquered.