Chapter 10
Vanessa
Gravity is a liar.
Physics tells you that gravity pulls you down.
It tells you that it’s a constant force, unwavering and predictable.
But as I straddled Roman Volkov’s hips, looking down at the man who had just played three periods of brutal hockey on a bad knee just to prove he could, I realized gravity wasn't pulling me down.
It was pulling me in.
The room was dim, lit only by the golden glow of the bedside lamp. It cast long, dancing shadows against the grey walls. The air was thick, heavy with the scent of the steam from the shower, the sharp tang of his cedar soap, and the underlying, intoxicating musk of arousal.
I was naked. Completely, utterly naked.
And so was he.
I could feel the heat radiating off him like a furnace. His skin was damp, his chest rising and falling in a heavy rhythm that matched the thumping of my own heart. The dark hair on his chest, the jagged white scar on his hip, the compass tattoo on his bicep—it was all laid bare for me.
My hands rested on his chest. His pectoral muscles were hard as granite, twitching slightly under my palms.
"Vanessa," he rasped.
His voice was wrecked. It was a sound that vibrated straight through my thighs and settled low in my belly.
He reached up. His hands—those massive, rough, callused hands that handled a hockey stick like a surgeon’s scalpel—wrapped around my waist. His thumbs dug into my hip bones.
"You are shaking," he observed.
I was. I was trembling so hard my teeth were nearly chattering.
"I'm cold," I lied.
"Liar," he murmured.
He slid his hands up. Over my ribs. His thumbs brushed the undersides of my breasts. I gasped, arching my back involuntarily.
"You are scared," he said. It wasn't an accusation. It was a statement of fact. His blue eyes, dark as the bottom of the ocean, locked onto mine. "Why?"
I swallowed hard. My throat felt like sandpaper.
We were here. At the precipice. The "New Normal" had evaporated. The banter, the games, the teasing in the library—it was all gone. This was real. This was biology and need and something much, much scarier.
"Because," I whispered, my voice breaking. "I don't know what I'm doing."
Roman paused. His hands stilled on my ribcage.
"You don't know what you are doing," he repeated slowly. "In what sense? You don't know how to ride?"
I looked down at his chest. I couldn't meet his eyes.
"In the sense that..." I took a shaky breath. "In the sense that I've never done this before."
Silence.
The only sound was the hum of the heater and the blood rushing in my ears.
Roman’s grip on me tightened. Not painfully, but possessively.
"Look at me," he commanded.
I shook my head.
"Vanessa," he growled. He took one hand off my waist and cupped my jaw, forcing my head up. His thumb brushed over my cheekbone. "Look at me."
I opened my eyes.
He looked... stunned. And then, slowly, something dark and primal bled into his expression. A fierce, terrifying satisfaction.
"You are a virgin?" he asked.
"Yes," I whispered. "Is that... is that a problem? Do you want me to get off?"
"Problem?" He let out a low, rough laugh that sounded like it hurt. "No, Myshka. It is not a problem."
He sat up slightly, wincing as his bad knee shifted, but ignoring it. He pulled me down until our faces were inches apart.
"It means," he whispered against my lips, "that I am the first. And I will be the only."
The possessiveness in his voice hit me like a drug. I should have been offended. I should have told him I wasn't property. But God help me, in that moment, I wanted to be owned. I wanted to be claimed.
"You have no idea," he murmured, his nose brushing mine, "how much trouble you are in now."
"Show me," I breathed.
He kissed me.
It wasn't like the kiss in the truck. It wasn't fierce or desperate. It was slow. Deliberate. A tasting. He kissed me like he had all the time in the world, like he was memorizing the texture of my lips.
His tongue swept into my mouth, slick and hot. I moaned, shifting my hips.
I felt him beneath me. He was hard. Impossibly hard. The thick ridge of him pressed against my wet heat, separated only by air and hesitation.
"Roman," I whimpered, breaking the kiss. "Please."
"Patience," he scolded lightly. He bit my lower lip, tugging it. "If I just shove inside you, I will hurt you. You are small. I am... not."
He wasn't bragging. He was stating a logistical fact.
"I don't care," I said. "I want you."
"I know what you want," he said. "But I decide what you need."
He moved his hands down. He gripped my hips and lifted me.
"Move back," he instructed. "Sit on my thighs. Spread your legs."
I obeyed. I shifted back, kneeling on the mattress, my knees bracketing his hips.
He sat up fully now, leaning back against the headboard, his legs sprawled out. He looked at me. His gaze traveled from my face, down my neck, over my breasts, to my stomach, and finally, to the apex of my thighs.
I felt exposed. Raw.
"Beautiful," he breathed. "So pink. So perfect."
He reached out. He didn't go for the center. He ran his hand up the inside of my thigh, tracing the sensitive skin.
"Relax your muscles," he murmured. "Let your knees fall open."
I let my legs drift wider.
He moved his hand between my legs.
He didn't use his fingers this time. He used his thumb. He found my clit—swollen and aching—and pressed down.
My hips bucked. A sharp cry tore from my throat.
"There she is," he purred. "So responsive. You like that?"
"Yes," I gasped. "Roman..."
"Good girl."
He started to rub. Circular, rhythmic motions. He watched my face the whole time. He watched my eyes roll back, watched my lips part, watched the flush spread across my chest.
"You are so wet for me," he said, his voice thick with satisfaction. "Dripping for me."
He slid one finger inside.
I hissed. It felt... full. Even just one finger.
"Tight," he groaned. "Fuck, you are tight."
He added a second finger.
I gripped his shoulders, my nails digging in. It was uncomfortable for a second—a stretching, burning sensation.
"Breathe," he commanded. " Vanessa, breathe."
I tried. I inhaled a shaky breath.
"That's it," he soothed. "Make room for me. Take me."
He started to pump his fingers. In and out. Slow at first, then picking up the pace as his thumb kept working my clit.
The sensation began to build. It was a pressure in my lower belly, a coil winding tighter and tighter.
"I... I feel..." I stammered.
"Let go," he said. "Give it to me."
"I can't," I cried. "It's too much."
"You can," he promised. "I've got you. You're safe."
He picked up the pace. His wrist flicked. He hit a spot deep inside me that made my vision white out.
"Roman!" I screamed.
"Come for me, Princess," he growled. "Come on my hand."
I shattered.
It was violent. My entire body clenched around his fingers. I threw my head back, screaming his name as the waves of pleasure crashed over me, drowning me.
He didn't stop. He kept working me through the aftershocks, milking every last drop of the orgasm until I collapsed forward, my forehead resting on his chest, sobbing for breath.
"Good girl," he whispered, kissing the top of my head. "So good."
He held me there for a moment, his hand still inside me, keeping us connected.
"Now," he murmured, withdrawing his hand slowly. "Now you are ready."
He wiped his hand on the sheet—a gesture that was somehow filthy and practical all at once.
"Come here," he said.
He grabbed my waist and lifted me again. He positioned me directly over him.
I looked down.
He was intimidating. Thick, veined, and angry red. The head was glistening.
My breath caught. " Roman... that's not going to fit."
"It will fit," he promised. "You are built to take me."
He reached down with one hand and wrapped his fingers around himself, guiding the tip to my entrance.
"Hold my shoulders," he ordered.
I gripped his shoulders. His skin was hot.
"Sink down," he whispered. "Slowly. As slow as you can."
I lowered my hips.
The first contact was shocking. He was so hot. So wide.
I pushed down an inch.
The stretching was intense. A burning ring of fire.
I stopped, whimpering. "It hurts."
"I know," he said, his face twisted in a grimace of restraint. "I know, baby. Just breathe. Push past it."
I looked at him. His jaw was clenched so hard the muscles stood out in cords. Sweat was beading on his forehead. He was holding back for me. The "Tsar," who took what he wanted, was waiting.
I couldn't let him wait.
I took a deep breath. I focused on his eyes.
And I pushed down.
I felt the barrier. The resistance.
With a sharp cry, I pushed through.
The pain was sharp, a tearing sensation that made tears prick my eyes. I froze, my nails digging into his shoulders.
"Shh," he soothed, reaching up to wipe a tear from my cheek. "It's done. The worst part is done."
He held my hips still. He didn't move. He just let me adjust to the invasion.
And it was an invasion. He filled me completely. I felt stretched, stuffed, possessed. There was no part of me that wasn't touching him.
"You okay?" he asked, his voice rough.
I nodded, breathing through the stinging. "I'm okay."
"Can I move?" he asked. The strain in his voice was palpable.
"Yes," I whispered.
He gripped my hips.
He bucked up.
Just a small movement. An inch.
A gasp tore from my throat. It wasn't pain anymore. It was... friction. Heavy, sliding friction.
He moved again. Deeper.
He hit the deepest point inside me.
"Jesus," he groaned, his head falling back against the headboard. "You feel... fuck."
He started to set a rhythm. Because of his knee, he couldn't do much, so he used his hands to guide my hips. Up and down.
Slide. Drag. Fill.
The pain faded, replaced by a dull, throbbing ache that was rapidly turning into pleasure.
"That’s it," he encouraged. "Ride me. Take it all."
I started to move on my own. I found the rhythm. I rocked my hips, grinding down on him.
Every time I came down, I felt him hit that deep spot. It made my toes curl.
"Roman," I panted. "You're so deep."
"I want to be deeper," he growled. "I want to be in your womb. I want to leave a piece of myself inside you."
The words sent a jolt of electricity through me. The breeding kink. It wasn't about a baby; it was about the mark. The permanence.
"Do it," I begged. "Fill me up."
He lost it.
His control snapped.
He sat forward, ignoring the pain in his knee, wrapping his arms around me. He pulled me flush against his chest so our hearts were beating together.
He started to thrust upward, hard and fast.
Slap. Slap. Slap.
The sound of skin on skin filled the room.
"Mine," he grunted into my ear with every thrust. "You. Are. Mine."
"I'm yours," I sobbed. "I'm yours, Roman."
"Say it again."
"I'm yours!"
He bit my neck. Hard. Marking me.
"You don't belong to your father," he growled. "You don't belong to the public. You belong to me. To this."
He hammered into me. It was animalistic. Raw.
I felt the pressure building again. Faster this time. Harder.
"I'm close," I gasped. "Roman, I'm close."
"Come for me," he ordered. "Milk me. Squeeze me."
I clamped down on him.
The orgasm hit me like a freight train. I screamed, arching my back, my vision going black.
Feeling me spasm around him was too much.
Roman roared. He buried his face in my neck, his entire body going rigid. He thrust up one last time, burying himself to the hilt, and poured himself into me.
I could feel it. The warmth. The pulsing.
He held me there, crushed against him, as we both rode out the aftershocks.
I was crying. I didn't know why. I just let the tears fall onto his shoulder.
He stroked my hair with a trembling hand.
"I've got you," he whispered, his voice broken. "I've got you, Myshka."
The comedown was slow.
We stayed like that for a long time. Me collapsed on top of him, him holding me like I was made of glass.
Eventually, our breathing slowed. The sweat on our bodies started to cool.
"My leg," Roman hissed through his teeth.
I sat up instantly, panic flaring. "Oh my god. Your knee. Did I hurt it?"
"No," he grimaced, shifting slightly. "It just... seized up. Cramp."
I scrambled off him. I felt shaky. My legs were like jelly. I saw the blood on the sheet—just a few drops—and the fluids we had made.
"I'm sorry," I said, reaching for the sheet to cover myself. The shame was creeping in. The reality of what I looked like.
Roman reached out and stopped my hand.
"Don't," he said. "Don't hide."
He looked at me. He looked at the mess on my thighs. He looked at the bite mark on my neck.
"You look beautiful," he said.
He reached for the tissues on the nightstand and tossed them to me.
"Clean up," he said gently. "Then come back. I can't move."
I cleaned myself up as best I could. I felt sore. A good sore. A stretched, used sore.
I climbed back into bed next to him.
He pulled the duvet up over us. He wrapped his arm around me and pulled me into his side. I rested my head on his chest, listening to his heart rate settle.
"Does it hurt?" he asked quietly.
"A little," I admitted.
"I'm sorry," he kissed my forehead. "I tried to be gentle."
"You were perfect," I whispered.
He was silent for a long moment. His hand traced patterns on my bare arm.
"You know," he said, his voice deep and vibrating in his chest. "This changes everything."
"I know," I said.
"The rules are gone," he said. "The 'fake' dating. The project. It's all gone."
"What is it now?" I asked, terrified of the answer.
He tightened his arm around me.
"Now," he said, "it is us. Against everyone."
I closed my eyes.
Us against everyone.
It sounded romantic. It sounded brave.
But as I lay there, listening to the steady beat of his heart, the fear started to creep in.
My father. The draft. The scouts. The secrets.
We had just handed each other the power to destroy one another.
Roman shifted, wincing as his knee settled.
"Sleep," he commanded softly. "You need rest."
"Roman?"
"Mm?"
"I don't regret it," I whispered.
He kissed the top of my head.
" neither do I," he said. "But ask me again in the morning when I can't walk."
I smiled into his chest.
I drifted off to sleep wrapped in the arms of the Ice Man, feeling warmer than I ever had in my life.
But just before the darkness took me, a thought flashed through my mind, sharp and cold as a blade.
I love him.
I loved him.
And that was going to be a catastrophe.