Chapter 24
Aurora
He’s moving before the word “deal” even leaves my lips.
No hesitation.
No pause to consider what our agreement means.
Alexei’s hand slides from my jaw to the back of my neck as he tangles his fingers in my hair. He pulls me toward him with unmistakable intent. My body hums in nervous anticipation.
This is survival. This is strategy.
Repeating the mantra in my mind, I steel myself for what’s about to happen.
I don’t have long to wait.
His mouth crashes against mine, stealing the breath from my lungs and the thoughts from my head. His demanding, all-consuming kiss swallows my startled gasp.
This isn’t a kiss to seal our bargain.
It’s a declaration of ownership.
There’s nothing tender in the way his lips move against mine or romantic in the insistent pressure. There’s only hunger in its rawest, most unfiltered form.
I should fight this. Pull away. Remember who he is and what he’s done.
But my fickle body betrays me. I respond to his touch like a flower angling toward a forest fire.
His hand ghosts down my throat until his thumb finds my pulse point and presses. Electricity zings through my veins in a dangerous yet irresistible current.
I’m vulnerable. Aware of what he could do to me. Yet instead of terror, treacherous heat builds low in my belly.
Our lips dance, tongues twining as his palm continues its downward journey. He tastes like vodka and bad choices. Everything I want but shouldn’t have.
What’s wrong with me? How can I want this? Want him?
After skimming my collarbone, he cups my breast through the thin fabric of my borrowed t-shirt. The possessive, confident touch belongs to a man claiming what he believes is rightfully his.
A small whimper escapes me—more pleasure than protest—as my nipple hardens against his palm. He groans at the noise and draws slow, torturous circles with his thumb.
Oh god, what am I doing?
I lift my hands and push against the solid wall of his chest. It’s like shoving against unyielding, immovable concrete.
His heart hammers beneath my palm, the only sign he’s affected at all by what’s happening between us.
I shove harder, suddenly unsure if I’m still trying to create distance or merely testing his strength.
He retreats a few inches, breaking the kiss and resting his forehead against mine.
Our heavy breaths mingle in the narrow space between our mouths. I inhale air thick with his scent, leather and vodka and a musky fragrance with hints of evergreen. My lips throb, continuing to hum with the ghost of his possession.
“Good.” I straighten my shirt in an attempt to reclaim some semblance of dignity. “Glad we have an understanding.”
“Mmm.” He leans back a little farther, enough to reveal his face.
My ribs clench around my lungs.
This smile is different.
Not the familiar cold, calculated curve of his lips, or the predatory baring of teeth. No, this smile conveys genuine pleasure and transforms his features, softening the jagged edges.
This smile unnerves me more than all the others combined.
“What?” I hate the breathless quality of my voice.
His hand drops to my waist. He nudges me backward, guiding me toward the huge dining room table.
“Sit.” His low rumble vibrates through my bones.
I start to pull out one of the elegant chairs, assuming he wants to continue our negotiation over breakfast, but his grip on my arm reroutes me to the table instead.
Confusion clouds my brain. “You want me to sit…on the table?”
His eyes, darkened with intent, answer for him. Understanding dawns.
Holy. Shit.
“Um, okay.” A fresh wave of desire scorches me as I perch on the edge, hyper-aware of the expensive wood under my butt. Misusing the table in this manner feels improper. An absurd concern given everything else that’s happened, but one I cling to nonetheless.
Normal people don’t sit on dining tables. Normal people use chairs.
Except nothing about this situation is normal…including Alexei Kozlov himself.
He tugs a strand of my hair and releases it. “Lie down.”
I scoot back a few inches. “I’m pretty sure this isn’t hygienic. Tables are for eating. Not for…”
…whatever you’re about to do to me.
His expression becomes devilish. “Oh, but I do plan to eat.”
Pure heat pulses between my legs as he guides me onto my back. “Oh. Um. But—”
“No more talking. Unless you want me to gag you again?”
Fear compresses my heart at the thought of enduring another gag. “No! Please don’t. I’ll…be quiet.” I bite my lip to prevent another nervous rush of words from tumbling out.
He towers over me, the flicker of remorse in his eyes suggesting that he won’t gag me again.
Probably.
I keep my mouth shut anyway.
The ceiling swims above me, the pendant lights too bright and exposing. The vulnerable position results in goosebumps dotting my skin. The table is unyielding against my back, the wood uncomfortable despite its smooth finish.
I wonder if ash would be noticeably softer.
Alexei banishes that ridiculous thought when he braces one hand beside my head. The dark shadow of his body blocks the light. His eyes roam my face, my neck, and my chest with meticulous attention, as if memorizing each detail and cataloguing every reaction.
He bends lower and brushes his lips over my ear. “This is not sex.”
Anticipation shivers down my spine.
He rocks his hips forward until the denim of his jeans presses against the thin material of my sweatpants.
All my clean underwear is drying in my room, so I’m commando at the moment, and the contact jolts me to my core.
That means every seam, every ridge, transfers through the flimsy barrier.
And when he grinds his erection against my center, I feel every single inch.
“This is a reminder of who’s in charge.” Another roll of his hips, more deliberate this time, provides pressure exactly where I crave it.
More heat rushes south. The whine that escapes my throat when he removes that pressure would embarrass me if I weren’t so desperate for more.
“Lift your knees.” His roughened register almost short-circuits my brain.
Still, I hesitate, clinging to this last shred of resistance. If I comply, I’m an active participant. I can no longer pretend this is being done to me. I’d have to admit that I’m doing this of my own choosing.
Cursing my own weakness, I flatten my feet on the edge and bend my knees. The position leaves me open, and shame crawls up my neck.
A satisfied smile graces his lips. Like I’ve confirmed a fact he already knows about me, about us, about the dynamic forming between captor and captive. “Good girl.”
The praise slips under my skin, warming me from the inside out. I hate that it affects me. Hate how my body responds to his approval. How my hips rise to meet his touch, seeking more.
When his free hand snakes between our bodies and finds the waistband of the sweatpants, I tense. We agreed on no sex, and I’m holding him to that promise even if it kills me.
Before I can protest, I notice his fingers don’t dip beneath the material. Instead, they press through the fabric, locating exactly the right spot with unerring accuracy.
My back arches off the table at the sudden jolt of pleasure. My strangled cry rings the room as two fingers slide over my sensitive flesh, working in concert with the grinding of his hips.
Pressure without penetration.
Caresses without direct skin contact.
Somewhere amid the haze of growing bliss, I realize the man is an evil genius.
He rubs and teases, adjusting based on my body’s subtle cues.
If he can work me this much now, I fear I wouldn’t survive sex.
His hips and fingers move in tandem, establishing a slow rhythm before gradually quickening the pace. He notes every reaction, every flicker of bliss that crosses my face.
My breath releases in quick pants. Small, desperate sounds accompany each exhale. I grip the edge of the table and cling for dear life. My toes curl against the hard surface as pressure coils within me like a gathering storm.
Through the haze of overwhelming sensations, I catch him studying me with clinical, focused detachment. Not like a man lost to passion, but like a scientist observing an experiment.
Testing boundaries.
Collecting data.
This isn’t a seduction but a demonstration of control. He’s proving he can have me whenever he wants, despite the rules I put in place. A lesson in our new dynamic.
Being this vulnerable, this exposed, should horrify me.
Instead, that knowledge pushes me closer to the ledge.
My moans create the room’s soundtrack as my thighs clench and begin to tremble.
Smug doesn’t even begin to describe his expression. “Let go for me, lyubimaya.”
The tension shatters, exploding in a burst of ecstasy that leaves me gasping beneath him. My vision blurs as I ride out the waves.
He doesn’t stop, doesn’t ease up. Alexei forces me to ride each aftershock, prolonging the sensation until I’m whimpering from overstimulation.
Only then does he gentle his touch.
I collapse against the table and gulp air into my burning lungs. My limbs are heavy, as though disconnected from my body, and my mind floats somewhere near the ceiling.
Alexei straightens. The smugness has vanished. No triumph gleams in his eyes, only that same intense focus and careful assessment. He never even touched himself to seek his own climax. Because this encounter wasn’t about mutual satisfaction.
This was about ownership. About boundaries, or lack thereof.
“Okay.” My foggy brain finally allows me to speak again. “Good. No sex.”
His lips twitch. Wordlessly, he raises his glistening fingers to his mouth, and my core tightens as his tongue darts out to lick them.
I clench my eyes shut. Was this his victory or mine? Did I maintain my boundary, or did he demonstrate how meaningless my limit is?
And why, despite everything, do I already want him to touch me again?
Either way, I need to be careful. I can’t allow this to destroy me.