Chapter 22 #3
He laughs, low and warm, even while buried inside me.
“I’ll take that,” he says, “and I’m trying to tone down my terrible personality.
” He looks at me, seriously. “You’re the only person who’s ever spoken to me this disrespectfully without having a bullet put through their head.
That should tell you everything about what a fool I become when it comes to you.
” His voice drops. “And I don’t play the fool, Vedma. Not even by mistake.”
I look at him for a long moment. I lean down to kiss him, and he kisses me back, deep and slow. When we pull apart, he licks his lips and lets out a low groan.
“You taste so sweet,” he says.
“I didn’t like seeing you with her,” I admit against his mouth. “I really didn’t like it.”
His hand comes up to my face, his thumb brushing my cheek. “I’m sorry,” he says. “From now on, if any woman comes near me, I’m walking the other way. I won’t let another woman’s hand touch me. Not ever.” He brushes my cheek again, gentle and certain. “Only you.”
He kisses me again, slow and deep. When he pulls back, his eyes are dark and focused.
“Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way,” he says, “let’s continue getting your blackmail evidence.” He looks down. “We’re almost to the good part.”
“What’s the good part?” I ask.
He stands up from the couch with me still wrapped around him and lays me back onto the chair so I’m flat on my back with him hovering over me. He looks down at my panties and grabs them.
“These are in the way,” he says.
“Don’t you dare—”
He tears them clean off.
“Alexei!”
“You already have my passwords,” he says, not bothered at all as he kicks the shredded lace off to the side.
“You have more money in your bag than most people see in a year. If you want a factory, I’ll buy you one.
” He lines himself up against my wet heat.
“But I’m not letting a piece of fabric get between me and my wife. ”
He lunges in—deep and hard—and I let out a jagged cry as the phone slips in my hand, the screen tilting sideways.
He keeps going, stroke after heavy stroke, pushing all the air out of my chest until I’m gasping.
“Are you filming, baby?” he grunts, his voice shredded. “Need a pause to fix the angle?”
“Shut up,” I hiss, breathless. “It’s not like I’m feeling anything.”
He freezes. Total, heavy silence.
“Oh, really?” he says.
He slams into me, hard enough to make the phone vibrate against my palm. He snatches it from my fingers, his eyes glued to the screen, and lets out a low, guttural sound.
“God,” he says, his voice completely wrecked.
“Look at this. You’re so fucking thick.” He grabs my waist, then drags his hands up to squeeze my tits, his fingers digging in while the camera stays live.
“I just want to—” He groans, thrusting deep.
“—God. Every single inch of you.” He palms my breasts, his cock driving in and out in a rhythm that feels like a punishment.
“You’re so perfect. I want to consume you. ”
His hand is a vice on my hip, pulling me deeper onto him, while the other hand holds the phone steady. His face has a tinge of red in it.
“Are you ready?” he asks, his pace stuttering, turning desperate.
“I don’t think I am,” I breathe.
“Yes, you are.” He leans down, his mouth burning against my ear, never slowing down. “Come on, baby. Don’t be scared. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”
He breaks with a groan that fills the small room, burying himself until he hits every wall inside me. I feel the pulse of him, hot and thick, flooding me. I clench, desperate, and everything inside me snaps, my body shaking as I follow him over the edge.
We stay tangled there, just breathing, our hearts hammering against each other in the dark.
Then he pulls out slowly, angling the camera down. He records his cock sliding out and the cum dripping thick and slow from me. He spreads me open with his thumb, making sure the lens catches every drop.
“Now,” he says, his voice dropping back to that low, satisfied drawl. He tilts the phone to catch his own face before angling it back down. “That is proper blackmail material.” He pauses. “Bratty attitude officially fixed.”
I stare up at the dark ceiling, breathing hard. “I want a new pair of panties,” I say.
“I’ll buy you a factory,” he says again, not missing a beat.
I close my eyes.
Outside, the club is still roaring. In here, everything has changed.
The few days before the wedding
The week passes in a blur of quiet, unnerving shifts.
True to his word, Alexei tones it down. He is still insufferable, controlling, and convinced he is always right, but he tries.
He asks questions and waits for the answers, remembers details I mentioned in passing, and makes my coffee exactly how I like it without being asked.
He even sits through a two-hour documentary about investigative journalism that I know bored him to near death, only speaking to ask questions when it finishes.
I learn things about him, too. I watch him read in the early mornings before anyone else is awake, and I notice how he eats mushrooms—which I know he hates—simply because he read they are good for brain function.
There is a photograph in his wallet that he turns away to protect, a piece of his life he refuses to let me see.
And then there is the way his face changes when he really laughs; it turns into something I wasn't prepared for the first time I saw it up close, something that doesn't belong to the man who hides behind a controlled mask for everyone else.
I haven't told him any of this by the end of the week. But I find myself stopping the voice inside my head that keeps telling me I hate him. And looking at the way he watches me now, I think he knows.