Chapter 3 #3
The way his suit jacket strained across his broad shoulders.
And when he kissed me…
It was brutal, yes, and meant to humiliate, not celebrate. But there was something else in it too.
Something that made unwanted desire flash through me despite the coldness of it.
The way his hand gripped my chin, strong and commanding.
The pressure of his mouth against mine.
The brief moment when I felt his lips part slightly, tasted the hint of—
No. I can’t think about that. I can’t acknowledge that my body responded to him in any way, even for a second. It’s a betrayal of Alexei’s memory, and of everything I’m supposed to feel.
I’m supposed to hate this man. I’m supposed to be repulsed by him.
But my body apparently didn’t get that memo.
I hear footsteps in the hallway. Heavy, deliberate footsteps that can only belong to one person.
My heart starts hammering against my ribs.
The doorknob turns.
And Dimitri Volkov enters the room.
I stand automatically, my hands clenching in the fabric of my dress. My heart is pounding so hard I’m sure he can hear it.
He’s removed his jacket and tie and rolled up the sleeves of his white dress shirt to his elbows, exposing strong forearms marked with scars that tell stories of violence I don’t want to imagine.
The top buttons of his shirt are undone, revealing the hollow of his throat, the hint of more scars on his chest.
The sight of him less formal and more raw makes me weak in the knees even as I try very hard not to notice how he moves.
How every step he takes is deliberate and controlled, like a hunter stalking prey.
So unlike Alexei.
He’s terrifying and I hate that I notice these things. I hate that despite everything, I can’t stop memorizing details about him—the way the white fabric pulls across his chest with each breath, the dark hair at his collar, the scars on his forearms that speak of violence.
“We’re only going to do this once to make it official,” he says without preamble. His voice is flat, matter-of-fact. “That’s all.”
That’s all. Like it’s nothing. Like I’m nothing.
I nod because I can’t speak. I can’t trust my voice not to shake or break completely.
He approaches slowly, deliberately, and every instinct I have screams at me to back away, to run, to do anything but stand here and wait for him. But I force myself to stay still even though my entire body is trembling.
When he reaches me, he doesn’t touch me immediately.
He circles behind me, and I hear the quiet tread of his footsteps, and feel the heat of him at my back.
My breath comes faster.
Shallower.
Then his fingers are at the zipper of my dress, and I freeze.
The sound of the zipper seems impossibly loud in the silent room.
His knuckles brush against my bare skin as he pulls it down—just the lightest touch, completely impersonal—but it's like an electric shock.
I can't step back or move. It's like my feet are rooted to the ground, like my body won't obey the commands my brain is desperately trying to send.
I hear my own sharp intake of breath.
The dress pools at my feet with a soft whisper of silk, and suddenly I’m standing there in nothing but the simple white lingerie set my mother bought. It’s nothing seductive or meant to entice. It’s just plain white cotton and lace, bridal and innocent.
I feel so exposed and vulnerable but when I try to move my hands to cover myself, they won’t cooperate. They just stay at my sides, trembling.
Dimitri circles back around to face me, and his eyes slowly and thoroughly travel over my body, taking in every detail. I see something flicker in those cold gray depths, but it’s there and gone so quickly I might have imagined it. But then his jaw clenches, and that blank mask is back in place.
“On the bed,” he says quietly.
It’s not a request. It’s a command.
I move on shaking legs, climbing onto the massive bed, and I don’t know what to do with my hands, where to look, how to be. This isn’t how I imagined my wedding night.
Dimitri stands at the edge of the bed, and his hands move to the buttons of his shirt.
I should look away and close my eyes. I should do anything but watch as he methodically unfastens each button, revealing inch by inch the body underneath.
But I can’t look away.
The shirt falls open, and holy shit.
Dimitri Volkov is built like a weapon. That’s the only way I can describe it.
Where Alexei had been lean and graceful (swimmer’s build with smooth skin that rarely saw the sun) Dimitri is brutal power and violence written in flesh.
His chest is broad and heavily muscled, the kind of muscle that comes from years of physical training and violence, not from a gym.
His shoulders are massive, each one corded with strength.
His abdomen is a landscape of hard muscle, defined and ridged, narrowing down to lean hips.
And the scars.
Holy hell, the scars.
They’re everywhere. A long, vicious one across his ribs that looks like it came from a knife.
Bullet wound scars—small, puckered circles—on his left shoulder and one super close to his heart.
There’s smaller marks on his hands and arms. His body is a roadmap of violence and a life lived on the edge of death.
Alexei’s body had been beautiful and perfect. Unmarked except for the occasional bruise from soccer or a childhood scar from falling off his bike.
He’d been soft in all the right places, gentle, safe.
Dimitri is none of those things.
He’s dangerous. Hard. Every line of him screams predator, survivor, killer.
And I can’t stop staring.
Shame floods through me, hot and sick. What the hell is wrong with me? Why am I comparing them? Why am I looking at this man—this man who hates me, who married me for revenge—and feeling heat pool low in my belly?
Alexei’s been dead less than two weeks. Less than two weeks, and I’m lying in another man’s bed, pregnant with Alexei’s baby, and I’m—
I’m a terrible person.
Dimitri shrugs off the shirt completely, letting it fall to the floor, and when he moves toward the bed, I can see the way his muscles shift and flex under his skin.
The way he moves with that predatory grace despite his size, like a big cat or something built to hunt.
When Alexei moved, it was with easy elegance. Fluid. Almost dance-like.
Dimitri moves like violence barely contained.
Stop comparing them, my mind screams. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it.
But I can’t.
The bed dips under his weight, and suddenly he’s right there, all that muscle and barely restrained power looming over me.
Up close, I can see more details—the way his chest rises and falls with each breath, the dark hair scattered across his pectorals, the way his skin is darker than Alexei’s, more olive-toned rather than Alexei’s pale Russian complexion.
Stop it, I tell myself desperately. Stop thinking about Alexei. Stop comparing. Just—stop.
But guilt is eating me alive even as unwanted desire coils tighter in my stomach.
Dimitri’s hand touches my skin, and I flinch.
His hand is large and warm. Calloused in a way that speaks of violence and hard work.
It spreads across my ribcage, and something ignites inside me that I don’t want to feel. That I shouldn’t feel.
He’s the enemy. He hates me. I should be repulsed.
But when he pulls me against him—when the heat of his body presses against mine and the masculine scent of him surrounds me—I gasp despite myself.
My body arches into him instinctively, seeking that warmth, that contact, even as my mind screams that this is wrong.
“You’re mine now,” he murmurs against my neck, his breath hot on my skin. His hand slides up to cup the back of my head, fingers threading through my hair. “Legally. Completely. Mine. Say it.”
Refuse, Vera, my brain orders me. I need to fight and do anything but give him what he wants.
But something about the command—about the possessiveness in his voice, the way his hand tightens in my hair—does something to me I don’t understand.
“I’m yours,” I whisper.
And I hate myself for it.
What follows isn’t gentle or sweet. It’s nothing like the tender, loving encounters I had with Alexei.
Dimitri’s lips cover mine, his tongue sweeping into my mouth and setting my whole body on fire. I—I wasn’t expecting that.
I hadn’t expected the flush of heat that courses through my body in response to him and I hadn’t expected to find myself bringing my own hands up, curling around his bare hips.
Touching his skin makes me feel funny inside.
I try not to think more about that feeling, especially when I hear the pathetic whimper that escapes me when he pulls away from my lips to trail a line of burning kisses, licks and nips down my throat, his hands leaving my hair to yank down my lingerie.
I dig my nails into his hips when he brutally nips my collarbone, his hands trailing over my body to cup my breasts.
I grit my teeth, trying to bite back a moan of pleasure when he begins rolling my nipples between his fingers, pinching just enough to smart but not enough to truly hurt.
I hate myself when the moan escapes anyway and when I find my hands making short work of the fastenings of his pants.
Think of Alexei, I tell myself. Imagine that it’s his mouth and hands on you.
But it’s hard to think of him when Dimitri is so different.
Dimitri shrugs off his pants effortlessly and presses himself against me and Jesus Christ, the feel of his rock hard cock against me is nearly my undoing.
My hands fist in the sheets beneath me, then slide up to grip his shoulders, feeling the hard muscle and raised scars under my palms, pulling him closer even as my mind screams that I should be pushing him away.
I’m terrified. Of him. Of this. Of the intensity of what I’m feeling.
But underneath the fear is something raw and shameful.
Something that responds to his touch in ways that horrify me.
My body wants this even as my mind screams that it shouldn’t.
He's whispering things against my skin—dark, possessive things about ownership and belonging—and instead of being repulsed, I feel desire pooling in my core.
“Every part of you belongs to me now,” he growls against my throat, his hands everywhere, mapping my body like he’s memorizing it. “Every inch. Every breath. Mine.”
I should hate it. I should hate him.
But I don’t. I can’t.
When he finally enters me, there’s pain, not because he’s rough, but because I’m tense and overwhelmed.
I gasp, my nails digging into his shoulders, and for just a moment, he stills.
His forehead drops to mine, and I can feel his harsh, uneven breath against my lips.
For one brief second, there’s something in his eyes that isn’t cold but then it’s gone, buried under ice again.
He moves, slowly at first, giving my body time to adjust to the intrusion.
The pain fades, replaced by something else.
Something that builds with each deliberate thrust.
His hands are everywhere—one gripping my hip hard enough to bruise, the other sliding up my side, cupping my breast, threading into my hair.
With Alexei, it had been gentle and sweet. He’d made love to me and gave me soft touches. Whispered endearments. Slow, careful movements designed to bring pleasure without overwhelming.
Dimitri doesn’t make love. He possesses. Claims. Takes.
And for reasons I cannot explain, my body responds.
When he picks up the pace, his movements becoming harder, more demanding, I hear myself making sounds I’ve never made before.
Desperate, needy sounds that should humiliate me but somehow don’t.
My legs wrap around his waist without conscious thought, pulling him deeper, and he groans—actually groans—against my throat.
His mouth finds the curve where my neck meets my shoulder, teeth scraping against the sensitive skin there, and I arch up into him helplessly.
My hands slide down his back, feeling those powerful muscles bunch and flex with each movement, feeling the raised edges of more scars I can’t see.
Evidence of violence. Of survival. Of a life so different from mine I can’t even imagine it.
“Look at me,” he growls against my neck, and it’s not a request. It’s a command that brooks no refusal.
I force my eyes open and meet that gray gaze, and what I see there steals my breath.
Intensity. Raw, overwhelming intensity. His pupils are blown wide, his jaw clenched so hard I can see the muscle jumping, that careful control fracturing at the edges.
He’s losing himself in this just as much as I am, even if he’d never admit it. Even if he hates that it’s happening.
“You feel—” He cuts himself off, jaw working like the words are being torn from him against his will.
His hand slides between our joined bodies, pressing his thumb against my clit exactly where I need it.
My whole body shakes as more pleasure shoots through me.
“Say my name,” he growls. “Say who you belong to.”
“Dimitri,” I gasp, and the sound of his name on my lips seems to snap something in him.
His movements become almost desperate, his control slipping further with each thrust. One hand fists in my hair, tilting my head back so he can claim my mouth in a kiss that’s all teeth and tongue and possession.
The other hand grips my thigh, pulling my leg higher around his waist, changing the angle until I’m seeing stars.
The pleasure builds to an unbearable peak. I’m trembling, gasping his name over and over, clinging to those broad shoulders like he’s the only solid thing in a world that’s spinning out of control.
My body is wound so tight I think I might shatter, every nerve ending on fire, and when his thumb presses against my clit again with just the right pressure—
I break.
The orgasm crashes over me like a tidal wave, intense and overwhelming and nothing like anything I’ve ever felt before.
With Alexei, pleasure had been sweet, building slowly and cresting softly like a warm wave lapping at the shore.
This is violent and consuming. It tears through me with the force of a storm, making me cry out—his name, yes, but the sound is raw and desperate.
I feel Dimitri’s rhythm falter, feel his whole body go rigid above me, every muscle locked tight.
Then he’s following me over that edge with a groan that sounds like it’s been ripped from somewhere deep inside him.
His face buries in my neck, his breath hot and ragged against my skin, and for one fleeting moment, his carefully maintained control completely shatters.
For just a second, he’s not the cold, controlled killer. He’s just a man, lost in pleasure, vulnerable.
Then reality crashes back in.