Chapter 9 #2
He pulled back, his green eyes blazing with heat. "Patience, beautiful." His hands moved lower, shoving my skirt up around my waist. He hooked his fingers into my panties and ripped them down my legs in one swift motion, leaving me completely naked beneath him.
He sat back on his heels, drinking in the sight of me sprawled out on the sofa, exposed and trembling. "God, you're beautiful," he murmured, his voice rough with awe. "So fucking perfect."
My cheeks burned, but the way he looked at me—like I was something precious and wild—made my body throb with need. He was still fully dressed in that sleek black suit, the bloodstained sleeve a stark reminder of the chaos we'd escaped. It only made him seem more dangerous, more intoxicating.
"Now, your turn," he said, a wicked smile curling his lips. "Undress me, Elena. I want to feel your hands on me."
I hesitated, my fingers shaking as I reached for his tie.
He watched me intently, not helping, just letting me take control for a moment.
I loosened the knot and slid the silk free, then started on his shirt buttons.
His chest rose and fell under my touch, the heat of his skin seeping through the fabric.
When I pushed the shirt open, revealing the hard planes of his muscled torso, I couldn't help but trace my fingers over the ridges of his abs, feeling them flex.
"Keep going," he encouraged, his voice low and commanding.
I tugged at his belt, unbuckling it with fumbling hands. He lifted his hips slightly as I unzipped his pants, pushing them down along with his boxers. His cock sprang free, thick and hard, veined and pulsing with need. I stared, my mouth going dry—it was huge, intimidating in its size.
He shrugged off the rest of his clothes, careful with his injured arm, until we were both naked, skin to skin. His body was a masterpiece of power and scars, broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, every inch screaming strength.
He leaned down again, capturing my mouth in a deep kiss while his hand trailed down my body, parting my thighs. "Let me taste you," he whispered against my lips.
Before I could respond, he slid down, positioning himself between my legs. His hot breath fanned over my most intimate place, making me shiver. I'd never done this before—never let anyone this close. But with Igor, it felt right, inevitable.
He spread me open with his fingers, exposing my slick folds. "So wet for me already," he murmured, then leaned in, his tongue flicking out to trace my clit.
I cried out, my hips jerking at the electric sensation.
He didn't hold back—his mouth devoured me, licking and sucking with expert precision.
His tongue delved into my entrance, thrusting in and out, mimicking what was to come.
I was so sensitive, every touch amplified, building pressure inside me like a storm.
"Oh God, Igor... I can't..." I gasped, my hands fisting in his hair.
He hummed against me, the vibration sending shockwaves through my body.
He focused on my clit, circling it with his tongue while his fingers slipped inside, curling to hit that spot that made stars burst behind my eyes.
It was too much—my inexperience made me hypersensitive, and the orgasm crashed over me fast and hard.
I screamed his name, my body convulsing as waves of pleasure ripped through me, leaving me boneless and panting.
He kissed his way back up my body, his lips glistening with my arousal. "Good girl," he praised, positioning himself at my entrance. His cock nudged against my soaked pussy, the head pressing in slowly.
I tensed, the stretch burning as he pushed forward. He was so big—halfway in, and the pain made me whimper, a sharp cry escaping my lips.
He froze, his eyes widening in realization. "Fuck, Elena... are you a virgin?"
I nodded, biting my lip, tears pricking at my eyes from the mix of pain and overwhelming sensation.
He groaned, but his touch turned gentle, stroking my hair. "Shh, it's okay. We'll go slow." He waited, kissing me softly until I relaxed, my body adjusting to his girth. Then, inch by inch, he sank deeper, filling me completely until he was buried to the hilt.
"You're mine now," he growled, his voice possessive and raw. "All mine."
He started moving, slow thrusts at first, letting me get used to the rhythm.
But soon, the pain faded into pure bliss, each stroke hitting deeper, harder.
He picked up speed, pounding into me relentlessly, the sofa creaking under us.
I lost count after the first few dozen thrusts—his hips snapped forward over and over, driving into me with raw power.
Sweat slicked our bodies, his injured arm braced beside me, the wound he'd ignored still bleeding.
"Fuck, you feel incredible," he grunted, his pace brutal now, slamming in and out. I wrapped my legs around him, meeting his thrusts, the friction building another climax.
After what felt like hundreds of deep, punishing strokes, he buried himself deep and came with a roar, spilling hot and thick inside me, filling me up completely.
We both panted, his weight pressing me into the cushions. He lifted his head, brushing a strand of hair from my face. "Did that feel good, Elena?"
"Yes," I whispered, still trembling from the aftershocks. "So good."
He smirked, that dangerous glint back in his eyes. "I can make it even better." With a fluid motion, he shifted us, sitting up on the sofa with me straddling his lap. His cock, still hard and slick with our combined fluids, twitched against my thigh.
"Ride me," he commanded, guiding my hips. "Take what you want."
I gripped his shaft, my hand barely wrapping around its impressive thickness—it was so big, so slippery from my wetness. I positioned it at my entrance and tried to lower myself, but it slipped away, sliding over my clit instead, sending jolts of pleasure through me.
"Try again," he urged, his voice husky.
I did, but it happened again—the head glided along my folds, teasing my sensitive nub, making me gasp and drip even more. The frustration built, heightening the ache. I tried a third time, the slickness making it maddeningly elusive, each miss rubbing just right and drawing more slick from me.
"Igor, please... I need you inside," I begged, my voice desperate.
He chuckled darkly, then gripped my hips and thrust up from below, impaling me in one smooth motion. I moaned at the sudden fullness, but he didn't move. "Now you do it. Fuck yourself on my cock."
I braced my hands on his chest, feeling the hard muscles under my palms, and started moving. Slowly at first, lifting and lowering, getting used to the angle. It hit even deeper this way, stretching me perfectly. As I adapted, I sped up, bouncing harder, my breasts jiggling in front of his face.
He grabbed them, squeezing and kneading roughly, thumbs flicking over my nipples. "That's it, ride me like you mean it," he groaned.
My thighs burned, but the pleasure overrode everything.
I rode him faster, grinding down, chasing that high.
When fatigue set in, he took over—his strong hands clamped onto my ass, slamming me down while he thrust up, burying himself balls-deep with every stroke.
My flat stomach bulged slightly from how deep he reached.
"Feel that?" he said, taking one of my hands and pressing it to my abdomen. "Feel how deep I'm fucking you?"
I nodded, moaning as I felt the rhythmic bulge, his cock reshaping me from the inside. The sensation pushed me over the edge again and again—orgasms ripping through me in quick succession, my walls clenching around him, milking him.
"Wait for me," he growled, his thrusts turning erratic. "Come with me."
One final, brutal slam, and we shattered together, his release flooding me as I screamed, our bodies locked in ecstasy.
I shattered beneath him, the world exploding into white light.
Blinding white. When my vision cleared, I wasn't in that rundown apartment anymore. I was in a church, sunlight streaming through stained-glass windows, the organ playing a wedding march.
I stood in the crowd, watching that familiar towering figure at the altar.
Igor, in a sharp black tux, looked devastatingly handsome, his deep green eyes locked on the woman beside him in a white gown.
Natasha. Tall, gorgeous, flawless—like a princess. Her dark hair gleamed under the veil, her smile triumphant and smug.
"You may kiss the bride," the priest said.
No. I screamed inside.
Igor leaned in, cupping her face just like he'd cupped mine. Then he kissed her.
Guests clapped and cheered. I stood there, my heart ripping apart.
"No!" I found my voice, screaming. "Igor! No!"
But he didn't hear. No one did. They kept kissing, laughing, while I crumbled.
"No!"
I bolted upright, gasping, soaked in cold sweat. Darkness surrounded me. I wasn't in a church. I was in my new apartment in Tuscany, on my bed. Just a dream, but tears streaked my face.
I glanced out the window; dawn was breaking, soft light slipping through the curtain gaps, painting thin stripes on the floor. Tuscany mornings were quiet, broken only by distant birdsong and church bells.
I sucked in a breath, willing my heart to slow. That damn dream.
The first half was true. The shootout, the meeting, bringing Igor home, giving him my virginity. All real. Seven months ago, at the Winter Palace Hotel, the night that changed my life.
Afterward, we dove into dating. He bought me pretty dresses, took me to fancy restaurants. Late nights, he'd speed us up mountains, kissing under the stars. All so sweet.
But the wedding? Not real. At least, I hadn't seen it. Maybe my subconscious was torturing me, replaying Igor and Natasha tying the knot over and over.
"Enough," I told myself. "Enough, Elena. Stop thinking about him."
I kicked off the covers, padded barefoot to the bathroom. The mirror showed a wreck: red, puffy eyes, pale face, hair a mess. I splashed cold water on my face, the chill snapping me awake.