Chapter 18 Aleksander #2
She shivers, eyelids fluttering open, staring blindly at the city while I keep her right where I want her.
My cock throbs against her ass, so hard it hurts, but I don’t stop fingering her, don’t stop twisting and curling my fingers inside her, searching for that spot I remember all too well.
I know her body better than my own. I know exactly how to break her down.
Her moans are soft, desperate, and when I brush my thumb over her clit again, circling tight and fast, she bucks back into my hand, her breath fogging the glass anew.
“Oh god, Aleksander—” she whispers, one hand flying back to grip my thigh. I catch her wrist, pinning it above her head against the cold pane, trapping her between the city and me.
I press my mouth to her shoulder, biting down just enough to make her gasp, then soothing the spot with my tongue, kissing up her neck, drinking in the taste of her skin, the salt of her sweat. She tastes like home. Like everything I thought I’d lost.
My voice is rough, almost pleading as I whisper, “Let go for me, Bella. I want to feel you come on my hand.”
She cries out as I pump my fingers faster, my thumb circling her clit with hard, practiced pressure.
Her body clamps around my hand, trembling violently, her breath ragged as she starts to fall apart.
I hold her tighter, chest to her back, murmuring her name, telling her I’ve got her, that she’s safe, that I’ll never let anyone hurt her again.
When she finally breaks, she comes with a sound halfway between a sob and a shout, her body shuddering so hard I nearly lose my balance. I hold her upright, fingers still stroking her through the aftershocks, my own need so fierce it’s almost painful.
Her body shakes against the glass, her breath catching as I keep my fingers inside her, savoring every twitch and flutter. She sags into my arms, spent, but I’m not done—not even close. The need is a physical ache, something primal and possessive I can’t ignore.
I turn her, pressing her back into the window so I can see her face. Our eyes meet, heat still burning in hers, mingled with something that looks dangerously close to trust. I can barely breathe, chest tight with everything I can’t say.
Unbuttoning my trousers, I grip her thighs and lift her, her legs wrapping around my waist. The head of my cock finds her, slick and ready, and I push inside her in one slow, deliberate stroke. We both gasp, and her nails bite into my shoulders, my hands holding her steady as I bury myself deep.
For a heartbeat, we just breathe together, her forehead pressed to mine, her lips parted, eyes squeezed shut in pleasure. Then I start to move—slow at first, then harder, fucking her against the window while the world blurs around us.
Each thrust is hungry, almost desperate, but the way she clings to me, the way her breath stutters against my mouth, it’s not just about sex.
It’s everything we’ve lost and everything we still need—anger, relief, hope, years of silence all poured into this one act.
My hand slips between us, finding her clit, circling it as I drive into her, drawing out those sweet, broken moans I’ve missed for so long.
She lets her head fall back, throat exposed, hair wild, body arching to take me deeper. I cover her mouth with mine, swallowing every sound, teeth scraping her bottom lip, needing her close, needing her to know she’s mine, here, now, always.
I fuck her harder, hips snapping, glass cool behind her, sweat slick between us, every muscle straining with the effort not to lose myself too soon. Her legs squeeze around me, her heels digging into my back, urging me on. The air is thick with our need—rough, filthy, beautiful.
Her walls clamp down, her body shaking as she comes again, gasping my name, holding on for dear life. That’s all it takes. My own orgasm slams into me, pleasure ripping through my core as I spill inside her, mouth at her throat, hands gripping her hips like I’ll never let go.
We stay tangled, pressed together, panting, bodies humming from the aftershocks.
We collapse onto the bed, tangled in the blanket, sweat cooling on our skin. The window is fogged, the room thick with the scent of us. For a while, there’s only the rush of blood in my ears, the ache in my muscles, the soft thud of her heart where her chest rests against mine.
But I start to shiver. A chill seeps into my bones and I can’t hide it. She props herself up on one elbow, concern flickering across her face as she touches my forehead.
“You’re burning up again,” she says, her hand moving to my cheek.
“Aleksander, you have a fever—this isn’t good.
” She sits up, pulling the blanket tighter around me, eyes searching for answers, for something she can fix.
She reaches for the thermometer and checks my temperature, her brow furrowing as she reads the number.
“You need antibiotics. You can’t keep ignoring this. ”
I take her hand, squeezing it, even though my body is heavy with exhaustion and pain. “I’m fine.”
“I’m serious. What are we even doing?” she says, her voice small but fierce. “You’re hurt, you’re wanted, your mother is trying to kill you, and I—I can’t even get my head around any of this. This isn’t a life. It’s barely survival.”
I watch her, stunned for a moment by how much I want her—even now, especially now. The worry in her eyes, the fear in her voice, the way her hands shake as she fumbles with the thermometer. No one’s ever looked at me like this before. No one’s ever cared this way.
She shakes her head, angry and scared. “I can’t do this, Aleksander. I can’t live my life just waiting for the next bullet or the next person who wants to hurt us.”
Her words echo in the air between us, but I don’t answer right away.
I just stare at her—at the woman I chased across continents, the woman who haunts every dream, every blank canvas, every stretch of lonely silence.
For four years, I tried to paint her out of my system.
For four years, every line, every sketch, every color brought her closer instead.
And I realize, with the force of a blow, that I’ve loved her all along.
I was stupid not to admit it before, and even now, the words stick in my throat.
I want to tell her. I want to promise her forever, to beg her to stay.
But I know better. I know the world I live in. I know how much I’ve already put her through.
She wraps the blanket around herself tighter, frustrated tears brimming in her eyes. “Say something,” she whispers.
I reach out and take her hand, even as fever shakes my grip. I bring her palm to my lips, pressing a kiss there, holding on as if it’s the only thing anchoring me to the earth.
The words I want to say stick in my throat. Not yet, not out loud. But I know it, now, deep in my bones.
“After all of this is over,” I tell her quietly, “I promise—I’ll let you go.”