Chapter 17Jenny
CHAPTER 17
JENNY
T he city lights of Atlanta twinkle through Ivan’s floor-to-ceiling windows, casting a romantic glow across his penthouse. My skin tingles with the memory of our perfect evening at The Optimist, where conversation flowed as smoothly as the wine.
“Tonight was wonderful,” I say, watching Ivan’s strong hands as he uncorks a bottle of red wine. “Thank you for taking me there.”
Ivan pours the wine with practiced grace, the rich aroma of blackberries and oak filling the air. “The pleasure was mine.” He hands me a crystal glass, his fingers brushing mine.
The leather couch cradles us as we sit, closer than strictly necessary. The wine spreads warmth through my chest, though I suspect the heat in my cheeks has more to do with Ivan’s proximity than the alcohol.
“You’ve been watching me all evening,” I say, taking another sip.
“How could I not?” His gray eyes capture mine, dark with intensity. “You’re captivating.”
My breath catches. The air between us crackles with electricity, drawing us closer like magnets. Ivan’s hand slides along my jaw, tilting my face up to his. His thumb traces my bottom lip.
“Jenny...” My name on his lips sounds like a prayer and a warning wrapped into one.
When our lips meet, it’s soft at first—questioning, exploring. The kiss deepens, and Ivan’s hand tangles in my hair. I taste wine and desire on his tongue. My fingers grip his shirt, pulling him closer.
He breaks away just enough to trail kisses down my neck. “I’ve wanted this for so long,” he murmurs against my skin.
“Me too.” The confession slips out before I can stop it.
Ivan growls low in his throat, recapturing my mouth. His kiss turns demanding, possessive. I match his intensity, years of denied attraction exploding between us.
My wine glass sits forgotten on the side table as Ivan pulls me onto his lap. He strokes my back, leaving trails of fire in their wake. I arch into him, wanting more.
“Tell me to stop,” he says, his voice rough. “Tell me this isn’t what you want.”
I answer by kissing him again, pouring all my need into it. His hands grip my hips, grinding me against him. The friction sends sparks of pleasure through my body.
“Ivan...” I gasp when his teeth graze my neck.
He pulls back, studying my face. His pupils are blown wide with desire, but there’s something else in his expression—a vulnerability I’ve never seen before.
“You’re playing with fire, dorogaya ,” he warns, though his hands continue their maddening exploration of my body.
“Maybe I want to burn.” I roll my hips deliberately against his, drawing a sharp intake of breath from him. He draws me against him and hold me so tightly I can’t breathe for a minute. I’m lightheaded but surge closer, wanting more of it.
He holds me tenderly but possessively as he kisses me again. Ivan wraps a section of my hair around his fist, tugging back my head. “Mine.” I don’t know if he means my hair or me. Probably both.
He lowers his head and nips my neck, making me moan. “Say it,” he demands.
“I’m yours,” I whisper.
His eyes flash with triumph, and he claims my mouth again. Our tongues tangle together in a passionate dance. I grind against him, seeking release.
“Not yet,” he says, breaking the kiss. “I want to savor you.”
Ivan stands, lifting me easily. He doesn’t let go of me as he carries me to the bedroom. Even after putting me on his bed, his hands seem like they’re constantly on me. He strips off my clothes, his gaze hungry.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs, running his hands over my bare skin. He leans down and captures one nipple in his mouth, sucking gently. I arch into him, gasping.
“More,” I beg.
He obliges, teasing my other nipple with his tongue. I writhe beneath him, lost in pleasure. He slides his hand between my thighs, stroking my clit. I cry out, bucking against him. He continues to suck and lick my nipples while rubbing my clit until I’m on the verge of orgasm.
Just as I’m about to fall over the edge, he stops. I whimper in protest, but he silences me with a kiss. “Trust me, dorogaya ,” he whispers.
“I do.” I say that with unexpected intensity. He needs to hear it, but funnily enough, I’m just as driven to assure him he has my trust. I tug at his evening jacket. “You’re wearing too many clothes, Ivan.”
He chuckles, sitting up to remove his jacket. I grasp his tie to drag him back for a kiss before he can shed it. “Keep it on,” I tell him. “I like it.”
He raises an eyebrow but complies, loosening the knot so he can unbutton his shirt. I watch eagerly as he reveals his muscular chest. He’s broad and strong, and I can’t wait to feel his weight on top of me again. He tosses his shirt aside, then reaches for his belt.
I sit up, pushing away his hands. “Let me.”
I unbuckle his belt and unfasten his pants. He helps me slide them off, along with his boxer briefs. His cock springs free, hard and ready. I wrap my hand around it, stroking slowly.
Ivan groans, closing his eyes. “Fuck, Jenny...”
I continue to stroke him, watching his face. He looks so sexy like this, lost in pleasure. I lean forward and swirl my tongue around the tip of his cock. He jerks, opening his eyes to stare at me. “Jenny...”
I smile innocently. “Yes?”
He growls and grabs my hair, guiding me back to his cock. I open my mouth, taking him in. He tastes salty and musky, and I love it. I bob my head up and down, sucking and licking. Ivan groans, thrusting into my mouth. I relax my jaw, letting him fuck my face. It’s hot and dirty, and I love every second of it.
Finally, he pulls me off him, panting. “Enough. I want to be inside you.”
I lie back, spreading my legs for him.
He kneels between my thighs, stroking himself. “Are you ready for me, dorogaya ?”
“Yes,” I say, breathless with anticipation.
He guides his cock to my entrance, pressing the tip against me. Then he pushes inside, filling me inch by inch. I gasp, arching against him. He feels so good, so right.
He groans. “You’re so tight.”
“Ivan...” I cling to him, overwhelmed by the sensations. He grips me tightly, first my hips, and then he puts one hand around my throat. I still for a second, though my lower body continues to thrust, rising to take his cock as he plunges into my pussy.
“Mine,” he says again, his tone rough, but his expression gentle. His hold tightens just a bit.
I shiver, mesmerized by the sight of him above me, dominating me. “Yours.”
He pulls me up, still holding my throat. “Kiss me,” he commands.
I obey, meeting his lips in a fierce kiss. He devours me, claiming me with his mouth as he claimed me with his cock. I surrender willingly, giving myself over to him completely. When we finally break apart, we’re both breathing heavily. He rests his forehead against mine, gazing into my eyes. “Jenny...”
“I’m yours,” I say voluntarily, reveling in his snug hold around my neck. Like a collar. A mark of his possession. We’re not into BDSM, and it’s never appealed to me, but surrendering to him feels completely right and natural. “Only yours.”
He curses softly in Russian before releasing my throat. It’s just so he can grasp my hips, and he starts to absolutely pound me. I’m thrusting frantically to meet him too, wanting to feel him come inside me again. It’s intoxicating, and neither one of us bothered with a condom.
“I’m going to come, Ivan.” I warn him, but I don’t slow down.
“Come for me, dorogaya ,” he says, his voice strained. “Come on my cock.”
I do, crying out his name as the waves of pleasure crash over me. I expect him to come inside me again, so when he tries to pull out without finishing, I instinctively tighten my thighs and inner muscles.
“Naughty girl,” he says with a laugh, though he’s clearly struggling for control. “We shouldn’t take such risks.”
I grumble but relax so he can pull out. His cock is throbbing, and he doesn’t even have to touch himself. As soon as the head rests on my belly, he starts to spurt all over me. When he finishes, he collapses beside me, panting. His expression is open and vulnerable, and there’s something even more intimate about him coming on my stomach than inside me.
He starts rubbing the cum into my skin, marking me. I should find it gross, but instead, it makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside. I’ve never felt so desired or cherished.
“Mine,” he says again, softer now.
“Yours,” I agree, leaning in for another kiss.
We lie in silence for a bit, basking in the afterglow. Eventually, Ivan speaks. “I need to tell you something.”
I tense, worried he’s going to confess his feelings for me. I’m not sure I’m ready to deal with that yet. I feign a yawn. “Can it wait? I’m suddenly exhausted.”
He hesitates, then nods. “Of course. Get some rest.”
I curl up next to him, resting my head on his chest. He strokes my hair, lulling me to sleep. I drift off, feeling safe and content.
A couple of days later, I sit in Ivan’s penthouse library, surrounded by leather-bound books. The rich scent of old paper and leather fills my nose while I flip through a first edition of “War and Peace.” I’m never reading it again—once in high school was enough—but I still appreciate how special this first edition is.
Marcus’s footsteps echo on the hardwood floor before he enters. I recognize his footsteps due to the tactical boots he always wears, even with his suits. “Got an update for you.” He holds out a manila envelope.
My fingers tremble slightly when I take it. Inside are two black and white photographs, slightly faded with age. The first shows a group of children bundled in winter coats standing outside a stark building, snow piled high around them. Among them stands a small boy, maybe seven or eight years old, with Ivan’s unmistakable features, though softer.
The second photo makes my throat tighten. A young Ivan sits alone on concrete steps, clutching something in his small hands that catches the light. I lean closer, recognizing the delicate chain and pendant. “The locket.” I touch the identical one hanging around my neck. “This is the same one he gave me.”
Marcus nods. “It belonged to his mother. She gave it to him before she died.”
“She gave it to him?” The words come out hoarse. I study the photo more closely, taking in Ivan’s solemn expression, the way his tiny fingers grip the necklace like a lifeline, and how he looks so forlorn.
“The orphanage kept detailed records.” Marcus pulls out more papers. “His mother brought him there herself when he was just a little over two. She was dying from cancer. She had no other family who could take him, and she said his father was worth less than nothing, to quote the records.”
I trace Ivan’s small face in the photo. “He looks so serious.”
“He was. The staff said he barely spoke for months after she died. Just sat on those steps holding that locket.”
“Where was this taken?”
“‘Saint Petersburg Children’s Home, Number Eight.’ He spent most of his childhood there until they moved him to ‘St. Sergius’s when he was nine. The Bratva recruited him at thirteen.”
I study the stark building in the background, imagining a young Ivan walking those halls alone. “Did they treat him well?”
“As well as they could. It was overcrowded and underfunded, but the records show he was smart, always top of his class, and he had a penchant for fighting—but only to protect the younger kids from having their food or things stolen or from being bullied.” Marcus pauses. “There’s more information here when you’re ready.”
I carefully tuck the photos back in the envelope. “Thank you for helping me understand him better.”
“Just keep it quiet for now. He’s private about his past.”
“I will.” I press the envelope to my chest, already planning how to incorporate this piece of Ivan’s history into my project.