Chapter 6 – Timofey #2
I slide my hands under her ass, lifting her higher, forcing her to take every bit of the pleasure I’m pouring into her. I’m going to make her remember the taste of my name and the feel of my tongue until she can’t breathe without thinking of me.
“I need you, now,” she says.
The words aren’t a request. They’re a command, sharp and undeniable.
I’m going insane. I already figured out that Valeria isn’t like other women—she’s assertive, forged in a world that doesn’t allow for weakness—but hearing her say it so clearly, so bluntly, hits me like a physical blow to the chest.
She grabs my arm and pulls me up, her strength fueled by a raw, unyielding hunger. I don’t fight it. She slams her lips to mine, a collision of teeth and heat, and for a second, the room spins. Then, her hand dips beneath the waistband of my sweatpants.
Her fingers—delicate, elegant—wrap around the base of my cock and give it a solid, grounding tug all the way to the tip.
Fuck.
A jagged groan is ripped from my throat and buried in her mouth as her thumb sweeps across the crown, trailing fire and ruin. My blood is a thundering river, and every nerve ending I have is screaming for the friction only she can provide.
I yank my mouth from hers, my breath coming in scorched gasps, and bury my face against her breast, sucking a nipple into my mouth as if I’m starving. I can feel the frantic beat of her heart against my cheek.
“Now, Timofey,” she gasps, her voice a desperate, broken melody. Her hands are everywhere now—on my shoulders, in my hair, pulling me toward the center of her. “Please. I’m on the pill. I need you. Inside.”
The last of my logic disintegrates. I don’t care about the Petrovs. I don’t care about the war waiting outside that door. I reach down, my hands trembling with an urgency that borders on violence, and rid myself of my pants.
I move back between her spread thighs, the sight of her—flushed, open, and waiting for me—burning itself into my retinas. I align myself at her entrance, the heat radiating from her making my vision go dark at the edges.
“You asked for this, Valeria,” I rasp, my voice a dark, lethal promise.
I don’t wait for her to answer. I lunge forward, plunging into her in one deep, devastating stroke that fills every inch of the ache between us.
I don’t give her a second to adjust to the invasion. The moment I’m buried deep within her, the last of my restraint incinerates. I reach down, hooking my hands under her knees and pinning her legs back until she’s completely open, completely mine.
Then, I drive.
The rhythm is brutal and unrelenting—the kind of pace that leaves no room for thought, only sensation.
Every time my hips collide with hers, the sound of skin hitting skin echoes like a gunshot in the quiet room.
It’s hard, fast, and punishing. I’m a man possessed, a soldier in a war that has moved from the streets to this bed, and I’m claiming every inch of her territory.
Valeria’s head thrashes against the pillow, her black hair a wild, silken mess.
She’s making sounds I’ve never heard—high, broken keels that stutter in time with my thrusts.
Her heels dig into my back, her nails carving desperate, jagged lines into my shoulders as she tries to anchor herself to the storm I’m creating.
“Timofey!” she shrieks, her voice splintering.
I don’t slow down. I push her harder, my movements becoming a blur of friction and heat.
I want to mark her from the inside out. I want the feel of me to be the only thing she knows.
My muscles are screaming, my blood is a roar in my ears, but the sight of her breaking beneath me—the way her eyes roll back and her mouth hangs open in a silent, beautiful plea—is the only fuel I need.
I lean down, my sweat dripping onto her pale skin, and capture her mouth in a kiss that tastes like salt and surrender. I’m deep, reaching for the very center of her, hitching her hips higher and higher until there’s no space left between us.
The tension in the room reaches a violent crescendo. I feel her inner muscles begin to seize, clenching around me in a rhythmic, desperate pulse that signals her end.
“Don’t you dare close your eyes,” I growl against her lips, my own body coiling like a spring, ready to snap. “Look at me while you break.”
I don’t give her a choice. I keep her pinned, forcing her to witness the exact moment I destroy what’s left of her composure.
The tremors start deep inside her, a violent, rhythmic tightening that ripples through her entire body.
Her eyes are wide, glassy, and fixed on mine as she hits the wall of her climax.
She lets out a broken, high-pitched cry that shatters against the ceiling, her back arching so high her head almost leaves the pillow.
She’s vibrating, her muscles clenching around me with a desperate, suffocating intensity that finally snaps the last thread of my own control.
I let out a low, guttural roar, my vision turning white at the edges.
I drive into her one last time, buried as deep as I can go, and freeze.
The world falls away. My muscles turn to stone, and I pour everything—every bit of the tension, the rage, and the terrifying need I’ve felt since she walked into my life—into her.
For a heartbeat, the room is silent, save for the sound of our souls colliding.
Then, the gravity returns.
I collapse forward, my forehead resting against hers for a jagged, breathless second before I find the strength to move. I pull out of her slowly, the separation feeling like a physical wound, and roll onto my back.
We lie there, side by side, our bodies slick with sweat and the air in our lungs coming in ragged, broken gasps.
The silence that follows isn’t peaceful; it’s heavy, thick with the weight of a boundary crossed that can never be rebuilt.
My heart is still slamming against my ribs like a caged beast, and I can hear the echo of her pulse in the quiet.
I stare up at the ceiling, my hand twitching at my side, inches away from hers, but not touching.
The strategist in me is already counting the cost, but for right now, the only thing that matters is the heat of her skin next to mine and the realization that neither of us is coming out of this unscathed.
I turn my head slightly, my gaze settling on Valeria. Her eyes are closed, her breathing slow and even. For the first time since she walked into my world, she doesn’t look like she’s bracing for impact.
She looks…peaceful.
The thought unsettles me more than the chaos ever could.
Because if her plan—marriage, an heir, securing her place—is real…then tonight may have already shifted things in ways neither of us planned.
The implication sits heavy in my chest.
I exhale, shaking my head slightly, trying to push the thought away.
“Maybe,” I say, voice rough from disuse, “the marriage you proposed earlier…isn’t such a ridiculous idea after all.”
Her eyes snap open instantly.
The calm is gone. Replaced with sharp awareness. Calculation.
“It’s the sex, isn’t it?” she says.
I frown. “I don’t know what you mean.”
She scoffs, already pulling away from me. The shift is immediate—like a switch flipping. She slips out of the bed, grabbing her sweatpants and pulling them on, followed quickly by her shirt.
I watch her, a hint of amusement tugging at me despite everything.
“Not interested anymore?” I ask, voice low. “In the marriage you were so determined about?”
She turns to face me, expression cool, composed—like the last few minutes never happened.
“Of course I am,” she says. “But let’s be clear.”
Her tone sharpens.
“Whatever that was…it doesn’t change anything. My life is still in danger. Your house was just attacked because of me. This situation hasn’t magically turned into something else.”
She holds my gaze, unwavering.
“Our relationship is still strategic.” A pause. Then, colder: “That meant nothing. Just a lapse.”
The words land more heavily than they should.
And for a reason I don’t care to examine too closely, I don’t like them.
Still, a smile curves my face.
“Of course,” I say easily, voice calm, almost amused. “A lapse.”
She narrows her eyes slightly, like she doesn’t quite believe me, like she’s trying to figure out what I’m not saying.
I don’t give her anything else. I just watch her.
And that seems to irritate her more.
Good.
Without another word, she turns and walks toward the door, every step controlled, composed, like she’s already rebuilding the walls she let slip just minutes ago.
The door opens. Closes.
Silence settles over the room again.
I lean back against the bed, dragging a hand down my face, exhaling slowly as I stare at the ceiling.
This situation…it’s spiraling into something else entirely.
What started as a suspicious refugee showing up at our doorstep has shifted. Twisted. Become something far more complicated.
Far more dangerous.
And whether I like it or not, Valeria Petrova is already changing the structure of my world.