Chapter 11 #2
His mouth curves, and he kisses me again.
He looks at me for one long second after that kiss, breathing a little harder, his eyes on my face like he’s deciding whether to stop now or make this much worse.
Then he stands.
I watch him in silence as he unbuttons his shirt properly this time and shrugs it off, then reaches for his belt. There’s nothing hurried in the way he undresses. No fumbling, no performance. Just a big, beautiful man taking off his clothes like he already knows exactly what he’s going to do to me.
My mouth goes dry.
He strips down until there’s nothing left between us, and God, he’s unfair. Broad shoulders, hard chest, dark ink and old scars over a body that still looks carved for sin. He’s thick and heavy already, cock flushed and hard, and the sight of him makes my whole body throb all over again.
He comes back to the bed and kneels over me, one hand sliding under my thigh to draw me closer. “So beautiful,” he murmurs, looking down at me with a hunger that feels almost reverent. “I’ve wanted this since last night.”
My breath catches.
His hand slides up under my top, over my stomach, my ribs, until his thumb brushes the underside of my breast. He looks at me once before he lifts the fabric, slow enough to give me time to stop him.
I don’t.
I can’t.
He pulls the top up and over my breasts, then bends his head and kisses one of my nipples through the thin fabric of my bra first, just a warm press of his mouth that makes me arch.
“Viktor.”
“I know.” His voice is rough already. “I know.”
His fingers hook the cup aside, and cool air hits the damp peak before his mouth replaces it, making me gasp.
He sucks gently at first, tongue circling, then deeper, harder, until my back bows off the bed.
The sound he makes is almost a moan itself, low in his throat, like he’s tasting something he’s been denied too long.
“Fuck,” he mutters against my breast. “I wanted this the second I saw you.”
Heat floods through me.
He shifts to the other side, kissing his way across the soft swell between my breasts, then latching onto my other nipple with a groan that makes my thighs press together.
“These tits,” he says, lifting his head just enough to look at them before taking one into his mouth again. “Do you know what you did to me last night? Standing there in that dress, looking all hurt and furious, and all I could think about was getting my mouth on you.”
I whimper and thread my fingers into his hair. He sucks harder for it, one hand kneading the other breast, thumb dragging over the wet, oversensitive nipple until I’m trembling under him.
“Such a pretty fucking body,” he says. “Soft everywhere I want a woman soft. I should have had you naked again the minute I saw you.”
The filthy certainty makes me hornier.
He kisses lower, down the center of my chest, over my ribs, across my stomach with a care that makes me shake for a different reason.
His mouth lingers there, and his hand slides under my thigh again, spreading me open for him while he kisses me everywhere, slow and thorough, as if he’s reacquainting himself with every inch.
I can’t keep still. My hands move over his shoulders, his back, his chest. I kiss him when he comes back up to me, mouth hungry and messy now, all of us slick with sweat and want. He tastes like me and heat and the last of my control leaving my body.
He strokes me as we kiss, broad palm over my thigh, over my hip, over my breast again, then lower until I’m writhing under him.
“I’ve thought about this mouth,” he says against my lips. “About these sounds. About how wet you’d be when I touched you again.”
“I am wet,” I whisper, shameless now. “So do something.”
That gets a dark smile out of him.
He kisses me harder, then reaches between us, guiding himself through my slickness once, twice. The head of his cock catches on my clit and I gasp into his mouth.
He groans. “Christ.”
His forehead rests against mine for a moment while he strokes himself over me again, not entering yet, just making me feel how hard he is, how ready, how much he wants this too.
Then he pushes in.
He goes gentle, inch by inch, watching my face, one hand braced beside my head and the other spread over my hip as he eases into me. The stretch is still intense. He’s thick enough that I feel every bit of him, every careful push making my mouth fall open wider.
“Look at me,” he says softly.
I do.
He holds my gaze as he sinks deeper, his face tightening with pleasure and restraint. “That’s it. Take me.”
I clutch at his shoulders and let out a shaky breath when he bottoms out, filling me so completely I can’t think for a second.
He stays there. Just stays there, buried deep, forehead against mine, both of us breathing hard. “So fucking good,” he murmurs. “You feel incredible.”
I move under him without meaning to, a tiny helpless shift, and it pulls a rough sound from his throat.
“Easy,” he says, though he sounds like he’s talking to himself as much as to me.
Then he kisses me and starts to move.
Still gentle. Still controlled. Deep, measured strokes that make me ache and open around him all over again.
Every drag of him feels intimate in a way I’m not prepared for, more dangerous somehow than when he was rougher.
He kisses me through it, my mouth, my jaw, my throat, and keeps telling me filthy, ruined things in that low voice of his.
“Been wanting this cunt around me all day.”
I shiver.
“Wanted to bend you over the first flat surface I saw this morning.”
My nails dig into his back.
“Wanted everyone out of the house so I could take my time and fuck you until you forgot your own name.”
The words make me moan.
He hears it and gives me one deeper thrust that makes my whole body jolt. “That’s right,” he says. “Let me hear how much you want it.”
I do. I can’t help it. His name keeps slipping out of me, breathless and needy, and he seems to like that far too much. He hooks one of my legs higher over his hip and drives in a little deeper, still careful, still watching me, but no longer pretending he isn’t losing control with me.
He kisses my nipple again while he moves, tongue flicking over the tight peak before he sucks it into his mouth, and the combination of that with his cock filling me has me clutching at the sheets.
“Oh God.”
His mouth leaves my breast. “Still me.”
Then he fucks me harder.
The bed gives softly under us. His breath is rough at my throat. One of my legs is still hooked high over his hip, keeping me open for him, and every deep push of his cock makes my whole body jolt.
I’m close already. Too close. My clit is still aching from his mouth and his hand, and now every thrust brushes something deep enough to make my thoughts scatter. I cling to him, nails in his shoulders, kissing whatever I can reach. His mouth. His jaw. His throat.
He groans when I squeeze around him. “Again,” he says, voice gone dark and ragged. “Do that again.”
I don’t know how to explain to him that I’m not doing anything on purpose. My body is just answering him. Taking him. Clenching tighter every time he drives in deep, every time he says something filthy in that low voice of his.
“I’ve wanted this all day,” he murmurs against my mouth. “Wanted to get you alone and feel you come around my cock.”
The words hit me like a hand between my legs.
I moan and arch up into him, and that seems to break whatever control he still had left.
He catches both my wrists in one hand and pins them gently beside my head, then kisses me hard while he fucks me with those deep, steady strokes that make my stomach tighten and tighten and tighten.
“Viktor,” I gasp.
His forehead presses to mine. “That’s it. Come for me.”
I’m so close I can barely breathe.
He slips one hand between us and rubs my clit with his thumb, firm and exact, and my whole body snaps.
I come with a cry that tears out of me before I can stop it. My back bows. My hips jerk helplessly against him. My cunt clenches hard around his cock, over and over, and he makes the roughest sound I’ve heard from him yet, almost a growl, almost my name.
“Fuck, Sienna.”
He drives into me through it, not slow now, not gentle, chasing his own release with short, hard strokes while my body is still fluttering around him. I’m oversensitive and shaking and I can’t do anything except hold on and let him take what he needs.
Then he buries himself as deep as he can and comes with a broken groan against my mouth.
I feel it, hot and thick inside me, pulse after pulse, his whole body going tight over mine while he empties himself into me.
The intimacy of it is almost too much. His face pressed to my neck.
His hand on my hip. His breath unsteady.
The way he stays there, deep inside me, like he can’t quite bear to pull away.
For a long moment neither of us moves.
I can feel my heart pounding everywhere. My thighs are trembling. His weight is heavy and welcome and a little overwhelming, but I don’t ask him to move. I don’t want him to. Not yet.
When he finally lifts his head, his expression is different. Not softer, exactly. Just less guarded.
He brushes my hair back from my face, then kisses me once, slower now, deep without being desperate. When he eases out of me, I feel the loss of him at once, and then the slow warmth of his cum slipping back out. The sensation makes me flush.
He notices that too, of course.
A faint, wicked look crosses his face, but he doesn’t tease me. Not this time. Instead he pulls me carefully against him and settles us on our sides, one arm under my head, the other draped over my waist.
His hand slides lower after a moment and comes to rest over my belly.
The room is quiet except for our breathing, still a little rough, and the muffled sounds of the house beyond the door. I let my eyes close for a second. I could almost pretend the rest of the world doesn’t exist.
Then his palm moves once over the curve of me, slow and thoughtful, and he says, “Is the father of the baby in the picture?”
I open my eyes.
He’s looking at my stomach, not at me.
For a second, I think about lying again. About keeping the whole thing suspended a little longer. But I’m too wrung out for lies to come easily now, and the question isn’t what it was before. There’s no accusation in it. Just something quieter. Something that matters more.
“I’m not married or engaged,” I say. “If that’s what you’re asking.”
His hand stays where it is. “That’s not exactly what I asked.”
“I know.”
He lifts his eyes to mine then, and the look in them makes my chest tighten all over again. Not because I understand it completely. Because I don’t.
He’s quiet for a while. One arm is still under my head, the other draped over my stomach in a way that should feel far too intimate and somehow doesn’t. Outside the windows, the light has gone softer, late enough that the room feels cut off from the rest of the house. Warm. Private. Dangerous.
I trace one fingertip over the skin of his chest and say, “Tell me something real.”
His mouth shifts. “You’ve learned by now that’s a dangerous request.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
I lift my head and look at him. “Then tell me anyway.”
For a moment I think he’ll refuse. He has that look about him, the one that says he’s measuring what something will cost before he gives it away. Then he looks past me toward the darkening windows and says, “I was not raised to be safe.”
It isn’t a full answer, but it’s more than he has given me before, so I stay quiet.
“My father believed fear was useful,” he says. “He was right about that. He was wrong about almost everything else.”
His hand moves once over the curve of my belly, absent, thoughtful. “By the time I was old enough to understand what our family was, I was old enough to be of use to it.”
“And what was it?” I ask softly.
His eyes come back to mine. “You already know the word.”
“Mafia?” I say.
He shakes his head. “We’re the Bratva. There were years when I thought I would leave.
Then years when I was too far in to pretend that was still an option.
Men died. Deals were made. Other men took my place at tables and did it badly enough that eventually I stopped letting them.
” His voice stays even, almost gentle, which somehow makes what he’s saying worse.
He watches me absorb it.
“There are parts of my life you would not like,” he says.
I let out a breath that catches halfway. “That’s a terrifying way to phrase that.”
“It’s also an honest one.”
I sit up a little, needing the room back around me. The bed. The lamp. The door. Anything ordinary.
He notices at once. “You’re frightened.”
“Yes,” I say.
There’s no point pretending otherwise.
His expression doesn’t change much, but something in him withdraws, just slightly.
I swing my legs carefully toward the edge of the bed.
I need distance. Air. A minute to think without his body against mine and his hand over my stomach making everything blur together into want and fear and something more dangerous than either.
But before my feet fully touch the floor, his hand closes around my wrist. “Don’t,” he says quietly.
I look down at his hand, then back at his face. “I need a second.”
“You can have it here.”
“That’s the problem.”
Something flickers in his eyes.
Because he understands me. Of course he does. He understands exactly what his presence does to the room, to my body, to my ability to think in a straight line.
I pull gently, but he doesn’t let go.
And for one brief, stupid moment, another image flashes through my mind. Not him. Her.
The woman on the plane. The one waiting outside the suite after I came out of the bathroom, still shaky and dazed and too wrecked from what he’d just done to me to hide it.
Stay away from him.
He’s a bad man.
It isn’t safe.
Then the hallway this morning. The same woman with a floral arrangement in her arms, looking me dead in the face and pretending not to know me.
A small cold thought moves through me. Could she have something to do with the poisoned champagne?
Because if there is even a chance she’s tied to any of this, then I can’t tell him yet. Not until I understand what I’m actually holding. Not until I know whether I’m protecting myself from him, or protecting him from something else entirely.
His thumb moves once against the inside of my wrist. “Sienna.”
I blink and realize I’ve gone still.
He’s watching me too closely now. “What is it?”
Nothing safe to answer with.
I shake my head. “Nothing.”
He doesn’t believe me. I can see that immediately.
“What are you thinking?” His voice is low. Careful. More dangerous than demanding would have been.
“Nothing that concerns you,” I say. Before he can protest, I’m pulling my shirt on. “Good night, Viktor.”