Chapter 19
Roman Makarova really knows how to treat a woman.
VALENTINA
“You said you’d take care of what’s yours. Me,” I tell him, and a quiet thought crosses my mind—I’m just as insane as he is. Everything else I’ve felt before pales beside the raw, consuming ache rumbling through me right now. Emphasis on the rumbling.
“And?” he asks, voice low and curious, his neck tight with corded muscle, shoulders tense.
I roll my eyes, biting back a smirk. I suppose I should relieve him. But seriously! Men and their dicks. “You’ve spent all night pounding the hell out of me, making me scream, pass out, come so many times I’m probably gonna have an eye twitch for life. But the worst torture?”
I curl my fingers lightly around his throat, meeting his worried gaze with a sly smile. “You have not fed me. And if you don’t fix that soon, I’ll be dangerously close to breaking the most sacred commandment: thou shalt not murder.”
He tips his head back with a deep laugh—the kind that vibrates through my ribs and settles low in my belly.
I tighten my grip on his throat and grit my teeth. “Roman Makarova. As much as I’ve loved the…protein you’ve been feeding me all night, it’s not the only sustenance I need.”
I can’t believe I just told him I loved his cock. My vagina is still on fire. Between the ginger and that unholy object between his legs, my ass may be scorched flesh forever.
But the normal hunger dominates.
He grins, wicked and unbothered. “Then I suppose I should feed my girl before she starts gnawing on something she’ll miss later.”
“Damn right you should.” I lower my hand and poke his chest before rolling my hips until my ass is rubbing his erection. “Because if I pass out from starvation, your precious bratwurst is getting skewered and tossed on a fire.”
One grip of my hair. He yanks my head back and steals all my breath as he scrapes his teeth along my jaw and purrs darkly in my ear, “Then it would be your Last Supper, Valentina Makarova.”
“Roman, for fucks sake!”
He deadpans with me. “See the back right corner of the room, Moya Koroleva?”
I turn slightly and nod to the solid metal door.
“Through that door is my liquor stock room, complete with refrigerator and some special sustenance.”
“What are you waiting for then?”
Oh, that devil is giving me the craftiest grin that reeks of dominant mischief.
“First, you will tender your apology to me for doubting my dedication to your needs.”
I roll my eyes and set one hand on my hip. “What do you want? A card written in calligraphy?”
His grin only seems to grow. A muscle bounces in his jaw. “Not exactly.”
I don’t even get the chance to blink. Less than a second later, he’s slammed my head in the hot water and shoved his cock into my mouth, going deep into my throat while I gag and choke and spurt bubbles.
I hold my breath as much as I can and take his dick because I know if I struggle, it will be worse.
For his punishment and for panicking underwater.
So, I dig my nails into his thighs and suck that shaft like my life depends on it.
Because it just might.
Roman Makarova really knows how to treat a woman.
In the hot springs room, we shared some charcuterie board-worthy snacks, and he fetched a bottle of vodka and matching bathrobes with our initials printed on them.
After, he carried me to the bedroom suite where he gave me a full body massage, tending to my sore limbs and smoldering flesh, including a facial complete with mask and cucumbers.
Now, I’m sprawled out on the bed with him massaging my feet with warming oil while I’m on my third shot of the best vodka I could ever fathom.
“Soon, I will introduce you to the man who makes the spirits.” Roman winks. I gasp as he leans down and bites my large toe.
“Ungh, cut it out.” I’ve got nothing left in me for any more “sexual needs”. And I will kick him. “You have your own vodka maker?”
“Distiller. Though he prefers to be called Spirit Lord.” He snorts and rubs my calves. I moan. “A little eccentric, but he makes damn good vodka.”
I look up from the pillow questioningly. “Are all your staff members a little eccentric?”
“Hmm…most, yes,” he acknowledges with a faint smirk.
“I’ve taken a liking to the outcasts, the strange ones with brilliance that do not fit into polite society.
Their talents are too rich, too rare, to be discarded just because they make people uncomfortable.
Wait till you meet Fleur, our greenhouse caretaker. ”
“Hmm,” I lay my head back down again, yawning profusely. “I’d like that. But I’m tired. So tired.”
“As you should be. You cannot walk. I’ve done my job right.”
I flip him off.
He chuckles. “I’ll let that go for now. You deserve rest.”
“Damn right I do.”
“You could just say thank you.”
I pause. Why the hell would I say thank you? He pounded my pussy to hamburger hell. Left marks across every inch of my skin. Spent two hours branding me as his—whipping me, chaining me, clamping my tits, spreading me open, and taking my ass while nearly drowning me.
And yet…he gave me the most heart-shattering, soul-breaking pleasure I’ve ever known.
Even without my memories, I know I’ve never felt highs like that. Because you don’t get to soar that high unless you’re dragged to the darkest depths first.
And I don’t believe anyone else on earth could drag me—or raise me—like Roman Makarova.
So, after a few heartbeats and longer breaths that feel like hours, I finally part my lips to murmur, “Thank you.”
“Horosho devochka. moy Samotsvet.”
My vision is already dimming as he draws the sheets back and removes his robe first, and then mine.
“What are you—”
He chuffs a laugh, brushing his knuckles across my cheek. “Sleeping naked together enhances sexual intimacy and boosts oxytocin, my love,” he says.
Holy hell, why does he have to look so insanely gorgeous and make me tingle all over? His cock is resting, sated after the long night.
“Regular exposure to each other’s real, unfiltered bodies can promote acceptance and reduce self-consciousness. With my arms around you, our vulnerability bonds. It will foster safety and openness.”
Lowering himself into the bed with me, Roman covers us with the blankets. I confess I love his breath on the back of my neck, and I don’t interrupt as he monologues.
“A few physical benefits: it improves sleep quality and regulates stress hormones, which lowers anxiety and supports immune function.”
He takes my hips and pulls me back, his heated chest against my spine. I can’t deny I love the sound of his voice, of the deep gravel, the way his tone always seems possessive, obsessed with me.
“Less clothing means more airflow and promotes skin health. This can prevent yeast infections, body acne, and sweat buildup. And last but not least…” he says with an amused undertone.
“Sleeping cooler boosts male fertility, improving sperm quality—tight underwear and heat can negatively impact it. It’s also why I work out every day and engage in a polar plunge once per week. ”
“Good to know I’m not the only one who gets their head plunged into ice water,” I mutter, yawning again, not denying how much I love his arms around me, cocooning me. “I guess sleeping naked also means fewer laundry loads.” No pajamas or underthings to wash. Not that I would wash anything.
“Indeed. Sleep, Valentina.” He kisses the back of my head. “I will be with you.”
I have no strength to protest. All adrenaline has circled the drain.
My subconscious pulls me away from the waking world. I crash hard. And I don’t even dream.