Chapter 12 Aleksandr
ALEKSANDR
Day Two of Honeymoon activities.
Nadia made me promise I would plan actual activities.
She made me look her in the eye and swear that I wouldn’t just fuck Lily every day we were here.
According to her, I have ten years of romancing and grand gestures to make up for.
Which apparently means slow dinners, long walks on the beach, couple’s massages—basically anything except taking my girl apart on every surface we can find.
Idiotic. But when Nadia stares at you like that, you don’t argue. It was non-negotiable.
So, I agreed. I would be a gentleman.
Which, in theory, sounded fine.
In practice?
It’s torture.
Because Lily is here.
In Panama.
In sundresses and tiny shorts that barely qualify as clothing, in tops so small I can see the soft glow of sun on her shoulders.
Looking at me with that soft, unguarded expression that tears me apart and puts me back together in the same breath.
And all I can do is hold myself back, bite my tongue, lock my hands at my sides—because I promised my brother and sister I would “romance” her.
And then my girl—sweet, cruel Lily—handed me a copy of Twilight like it was a test.
Where Edward is so much of a gentleman I swear he forgets he has a dick.
No offense, but from what I hear about Jacob? He’s more my type of man. At least the wolf had the sense to get angry. To fight for what he wanted. To bare his teeth instead of sulking in the shadows over what he couldn’t have.
Meanwhile, Nadia and Nikolai have me cut off at the balls.
Nik actually told me to put my teeth away, at least until the ink on the marriage certificate dried.
And it is exhausting—exhausting—to hide my instincts from Lily.
Every instinct in me wants to rip those little bikinis off her, tie her to my bed, and keep her there until she’s shaking, screaming, and dripping with me.
I want her leaking my cum out of that perfect little pussy—pink and soft and sweet, tasting like fucking peaches every time I’ve had her on my tongue.
I want her.
I need her.
Every breath, every nerve in me is wired to take her, to claim her, to put her exactly where she belongs: on my cock, or my tongue, or my lap, always by my side, never anywhere I can’t reach her.
And instead?
After a day of scuba diving and walking hand in hand over the canal, we are here.
On the beach.
At a fucking salsa class.
Lily is in a red dress that’s killing me—ruffled, with a low V-neck that frames the perfect curve of her breasts, hinting at just enough to make me insane, and to my dismay is fucking backless as well.
The fabric skims over her thighs like sin itself, and those strappy black heels she slipped on make her legs look endless.
She smells like cocoa butter and roses, like summer and sex, and I’m supposed to keep her fully clothed?
I’m supposed to keep my cock out of her when she’s pressed up against me, swaying against my body to the beat of this damned salsa?
Her hips roll. Her hand fits into mine. Her other hand rests lightly on my shoulder, and all I can think about is bending her over the nearest railing until she forgets how to stand.
The instructor claps his hands sharply, striding toward us to adjust my posture again. “Closer, closer,” he says in accented English, pushing at my arm so that my hand settles even lower on Lily’s back, pulling her tighter against me.
Lily tilts her head back and laughs, bright and breathless, and the sound is gasoline on fire. Her chest brushes against mine with every beat.
My jaw locks so hard I feel it in my teeth. I can barely hear the music over the pounding in my head.
If this man tells me to hold her any closer, I’m going to do it—and then I’m dragging her to the darkest, furthest corner of this beach and fucking her.
I’ll take her virginity like the animal I am.
And God, I shouldn’t have let myself think about that, because it’s one thing to want Lily, but it’s another to know she’s been waiting for me.
That I will be the first. That I will be the last. That all this time, she’s been my perfect, good girl—sweet and untouched, keeping herself for me without even knowing it.
The music swells, all drums and strings and heat, and I force myself to move with her. To match her sway. Our bodies fit together too perfectly, hips aligned, her hand in mine, and the rhythm digs into my blood until it’s all I can hear.
She tilts her head back to look up at me, her lips parted, cheeks flushed, eyes bright from the dance and the sun. “You’re a great dancer,” she says, breathless, teasing.
I lean in, close enough that my lips brush the curve of her ear as I answer, “I have to be light on my feet, Moya. My line of work depends on it.”
Her laugh is soft, warm against my throat, and it makes my grip on her waist tighten just a little.
The instructor calls out another command, and I spin her out, then pull her back in, the red of her dress flaring like a flame. She collides with my chest, her hand braced against me, her body pressed flush against mine.
I swear I can feel every beat of her heart, every drop of heat between us.
“I thought you didn't dance?” she whispers, looking everywhere but at me, and I want her—need her—to look at me.
“I didn’t when I was young and immature,” I say, dipping her low, the skirt of her red dress spilling around us like fire. “I didn’t dance, didn’t care to try. But now?” I pull her back to me, close, my hand at her spine pressing her flush against my chest. “Now I am the man who goes to the dance.”
Her breath hitches, and her eyes finally lift to mine. “Because of me?”
“Always because of you,” I admit.
We turn with the rhythm, bodies moving together in slow circles while the rest of the class blurs into nothing. It’s just her, and the heat of her skin under my hand, and the music carrying us.
“You have no idea how hard I work,” I murmur, my lips brushing the shell of her ear.
“Every day, to be the man you deserve. To take everything dark and ugly I have been and make it into something worthy of you. Do you know what it is like to want someone so much you would burn down your whole life just to be allowed to hold her hand in daylight?”
She looks at me then, truly looks at me, and there’s no shyness in her gaze now—only something warm and steady, something that roots me in place.
“I didn’t need you to be perfect,” she says softly, the words almost lost in the music. “I just needed you. I’ve only ever wanted you.”
Her voice sinks into me, deep and slow, undoing me in a way nothing else can.
“You may only want me,” I tell her, my thumb tracing the bare skin of her back, “but you don’t deserve anything less than perfection, Lily.”
The music curls around us, heat sinking deep into my skin. She looks up at me through her lashes, and then—God help me—her teeth catch her lower lip.
It’s a small, thoughtless thing, but it knocks the air out of me.
I stop moving. My hand slides from her back to her jaw, tilting her face up toward mine.
“Don’t do that,” I say, low enough that only she can hear.
Her brows knit together, like she doesn’t understand. “Do what?”
I brush my thumb over her mouth, pulling that soft, bitten lip free from between her teeth. “That.”
I dip my head, my forehead touching hers for the briefest second before my mouth finds hers.
The kiss starts soft, almost careful—a question. But the moment her lips part, the restraint I’ve been clinging to snaps. It deepens instantly, turns hot and consuming, years of tension collapsing into one brutal, beautiful answer.
Her lips are warm and sweet and open for me, and I can taste the faint salt of the ocean on her tongue. I kiss her like a starving man, like I’ve been waiting for this exact second since the first day I saw her, and it’s still not enough.
My hand cradles the back of her head, angling her mouth to mine, while my other palm presses hard against the small of her back, pulling her flush to me.
Her body molds against mine, soft curves meeting the hard line of my chest, and it’s like every muscle I’ve kept locked for years unravels at once.
I’m hard. So hard it hurts, my cock straining against the confines of my jeans just from the feel of her lips, her heat, the way she clings to my shirt like she never wants to let go.
The world shrinks to the taste of her, the sound of her soft gasp into my mouth, the beat of her heart thrumming against mine.
And then—sharp clapping breaks over us, a ripple of delighted whoops and cheers that makes Lily jerk back slightly, flushed and wide-eyed.
I keep my hand at her back, my chest rising and falling as I look down at her, unwilling to let her move more than an inch.
“You two,” the instructor says, grinning broadly, “you are naturals. So much chemistry! Perfecto!”
Lily’s laugh bubbles out, breathless and embarrassed, and we both look at the class and bow.
The instructor claps his hands, grinning. “That is enough for today! Class dismissed. Go, enjoy the sunset. And you two—” he gestures between us, “—practice. You are made for this dance.”
The group begins to scatter, the music still pulsing faintly behind us, but the moment we step out of the circle, the noise and movement fade away.
Sand shifts under our feet as we start back, her hand sliding into mine like it’s been there all along. She looks up at me through her lashes, the tips of her ears still colored pink from the dance.
“Home?” she asks softly, a single word wrapped in hope.
I like the sound of that.
“Home,” I agree, the word deep in my chest.
She smiles at that—small, knowing—and we walk, hand in hand, back toward the private villa, complete with a private beach and accommodations.
We walk back in the comfortable silence we have created over the last two days, the only problem being that every time I glance down at her, she’s already looking up at me—expectantly, her lips parted.
“What’s that look for Moya?” I whisper, making the tops of her ears turn that vibrant shade of pink in the moonlight.
She looks away from me, and down at the wooden steps, covered in sand that lead to our villa. “N-nothing. There’s like no look. I just…it’s stupid. Tonight has been perfect.”
She says perfect as if she had to force it from her mouth, and I shake my head, a small chuckle that only she can draw out of me comes out. “It doesn’t sound perfect.”
“Well, it is!” She says, her voice rushing out. “We walked the canal. You cracked open that coconut. We had an amazing meal. We were the best dancers in the class. Perfect, totally romantic day.”
I stop outside the door, and look down at her. She looks flustered and frustrated, interlocking her fingers just to flex them over and over again. I reach out and hold her wrists, stopping her.
“Lily,” I rasp, leaning into her until her back is nearly flush to the wall.
Her eyes widen—round, helpless, like a doll someone forgot to put away. That lip is caught between her teeth again, taunting me, and it takes everything not to rip it free with my mouth. I want to bite it until she tastes blood. I want every sound she makes to be mine.
“I was told to behave on this honeymoon,” I murmur, low and dangerous. “Told to play the gentleman. That if I did even half the things I think about when I look at you, you’d run from me. Is that true?”
She shakes her head, silent. I don’t accept silence.
“Say it,” I growl, the words vibrating against her skin. “Use your mouth, or I’ll find a better use for it.”
She releases her lip with agonizing slowness, and I feel the heat coil tighter in my gut. “I-I want this. I want us.”
“Lily-”
“No,” she snaps, her brows furrowed as she tries to jerk closer to me. “Listen Alek, I want you like now, not later, or tomorrow or never, okay? I just-”
I cut her off, seizing her wrists and pinning them above her head.
Not hard enough to bruise—yet—but enough that she feels how useless it would be to fight.
Her body curves away from the wall, her chest brushing my own, and my free hand locks around her waist. Moonlight slices across my face, and from the way her breath stumbles, I know my smile looks feral.
“I wish you hadn’t said that, Moya,” I breathe, almost a confession.
Her voice is barely there. “W-why?”
“Because the man I am,” I murmur, my grip tightening on her wrists until I feel the blood pulse beneath my fingers, “would shred this dress from your body and fuck you against this door until you forgot your own name.”
She twists in my hold, but I drive her wrists harder into the doorframe. “The man I am wouldn’t give a fuck that you’re a virgin. He’d bury himself in you so deep you’d bleed for him, mark you from the inside so you never doubt who you belong to.”
Her gasp is sharp, shaky, as she tries to respond, but no words come out.
“But,” I cut in, my hand dragging up her side in a slow, claiming path, “I love you. So you’re going to do us both a favor and take your cute ass upstairs to shower.”
Her eyes widen, mouth opening and closing until she whispers. “Aleksandr, come on, I am literally—”
I lean in, lips grazing the shell of her ear, my voice a dark promise. “Lily, when I fuck you—and I will fuck you—I will prepare you properly. But right now, with that mouth of yours, I’ll make it hurt. Do you want that?”
Her bottom lip trembles, and though she drops her gaze, I catch the flush creeping up her neck, staining the tips of her ears pink. She’s thinking something filthy—something she doesn’t want to admit.
I answer for her, my tone final. “No. You don’t. So go upstairs and take a shower.”
I release her, and she sags back against the wall, chest rising and falling like she’s run a race. For a second, I think she might argue—but instead she spins on her heel and stomps toward the stairs, muttering under her breath.
I can’t help myself. I reach out and smack her ass, the sharp sound echoing in the Villa. She gasps, whirling around with wide eyes, but I’m already smirking.
Fuck me, I’ve got a brat on my hands.