Chapter 11
IVAN
Her bedroom.
My guest room, technically.
She's cross-legged on the bed, trying to pretend this is just art, just anatomy practice, just innocent studying.
We both know better.
"Ready?" I ask from the doorway.
Her throat works as she swallows. "As I'll ever be."
I close the door behind me. The click of the latch sounds final. There's no Pyotr. No interruptions. Just us and whatever happens next.
My hands go to my belt. Her eyes track the movement, pupils dilating. She's trying to keep her expression neutral, but I can read her. Can see the want underneath the nerves.
The belt slides free, and I drop it on the floor. My hands move to my pants, and I watch her lips part as I unzip slowly.
The designer slacks hit the floor, leaving me in black boxer briefs that do absolutely nothing to hide how hard I am. How hard I've been since she picked up that pencil and agreed to draw me.
"That's... that's good," she says, voice unsteady. "That works."
But I'm feeling playful. Why not see how far I can push her before she breaks?
"You sure?" My thumbs hook into the waistband. "Seems like you'd get a more accurate reference if I took these off, too."
Her face goes scarlet. "No. Not yet. Top body first. Oh God."
I don't give her time to protest further. The boxers hit the floor, and I'm standing naked in her bedroom, fully erect.
The sound she makes is somewhere between a gasp and a whimper. "Ivan—"
"What?" I spread my arms slightly, giving her the full view. "You said anatomy practice. This is anatomy."
She can't seem to form words. Her eyes betray her, drinking me in despite her protests. Starting at my face, then dropping lower. Taking in my chest, my stomach, the V of muscle at my hips. Then lower still, and her face somehow gets even redder.
She looks delicious like this. Blonde hair in a messy bun, drowning in my shirt, cheeks aflame. Flustered and trying so hard to maintain control.
I'm going to destroy that control.
My hand drops to my cock and wraps around it. Just holding, not stroking yet. But her eyes follow the movement like she's hypnotized.
"You should probably start drawing," I say, roughly.
"I—" She licks her lips. "Right. Drawing. That's what we're doing."
Her pencil touches paper, but her hand is shaking. She tries to sketch, but she keeps glancing up at me. At what I'm doing.
I start stroking myself lazily. Just enough to keep myself hard, but also because I can't help it. Not with her watching. Not with those green eyes wide and wanting.
"Stop that," she says, but her voice wavers.
"Stop what?"
"You know what."
I stroke faster, maintaining eye contact. "I need to stay hard for the sketch, don't I? Can't have you drawing inaccurate anatomy."
"Oh my God." She's gripping the pencil so tight her knuckles are bloodless.
"Step three, remember?" I take a step closer to the bed. "I stroke myself while you watch. You agreed to this."
"I thought—" She swallows hard. "I thought you'd just... pose."
"Where's the fun in that?"
Her pencil moves across paper, but it looks like she's not really drawing. She's just making random marks while she tries to process what's happening.
I stroke myself more, twisting my wrist the way I like it. The way I've done dozens of times while thinking about her. But this is better. This is her watching. Actually here.
"You're not drawing," I observe.
"I'm trying." Her words are tight. "But you're—"
"Distracting?"
"Yes."
"Good."
She makes another frustrated sound. Then, clearly trying to redirect, trying to find some solid ground, she asks, "Are you... I mean, have you always been..."
"Spit it out, Lila."
"So… in your line of work. Have you always been in it? You know, like…"
Ah. She's trying to change the subject. Trying to shift attention away from what I'm doing right in front of her. Cute.
"Since I was born." I keep stroking, keep watching her watch me. "My father was Pakhan before me. Groomed me for it since I could walk."
"And your mother?"
"Dead. Both are." My grip tightens. "Why are you asking about this now?"
"Just curious." But she's not looking at my face anymore. She's looking at my hand. At what I'm doing.
"Liar. You're trying to distract yourself."
"Maybe."
"It's not working, is it?"
"No."
I move closer, right to the edge of the bed. She doesn't tell me to stop this time. She simply watches as I stroke myself inches from where she's sitting.
"Tell me," I say. "In your books. The ones you marked up. Do the men ever do this? Get themselves off while the girl watches?"
She nods, barely. "Sometimes."
"And does it make you wet when you read it?"
"Ivan—"
"Answer the question."
"Yes." The word comes out breathless. "Yes, it does."
"Are you wet right now?"
Her face burns hotter. "That's none of your—"
"You are. I can see it in the way you're shifting. The way you're pressing your thighs together." I stroke harder, feeling myself getting close. "You're soaked, aren't you? Sitting there in my shirt, pretending to draw, while you're dripping for me."
"Stop being so cocky."
The corner of my mouth lifts in a smirk. "Can't help it. You make me cocky."
She groans. "Did you seriously just make that pun?"
"You walked into it."
Despite everything, she almost smiles. "You're impossible."
"And you like it."
"I don't know what I like anymore." Her words fall to a whisper. "This whole thing is insane. You're insane. I'm insane for being here."
"Maybe." I reach out with my free hand and tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. "But you're still here. Still watching. Still wanting."
She leans into the touch without seeming to realize it. "Are you ever going to tell me about your operation? Really tell me?"
"Bratva business." My hand keeps moving, slower now. "We control ports, trafficking routes, protection rackets. Standard organized crime. Shot a man today for asking about you."
Her pencil stills. "What?"
"Dmitri's soldier. Was hunting you. I gave him a message about staying away." I study her face, looking for fear. "You'll get used to it. You're under my protection. Sometimes that means offense, not defense."
"You shot someone because of me."
"I'd do worse than that for you."
She's quiet for a moment, processing. "That should scare me."
"But it doesn't."
"No." She looks up and meets my eyes. "It doesn't. That probably says something terrible about me."
"It says you're mine." I move even closer, and now my cock is right there, inches from her face. “So, this is like the novels, right?”
She stares at it, at me, her breathing ragged.
"Better view from here, isn't it?"
Her hand comes up, almost touching, then drops. "I shouldn't want this."
"But you do."
"Yes." The admission seems to cost her. "Yes, this is like the novels. Exactly like them. Except it's real and you're dangerous and I should be running."
"But you're not running."
"No."
I stop stroking and cup her face with my free hand. My cock throbs between us, but I need her to understand this. "Step four was supposed to be a date. Dinner. A normal night. But I'm bending the rules."
"Why?"
"Because I can't take it anymore." The words come out rough, honest. "Because I've wanted you for three months and you're here and I'm done pretending I have any control left."
"Ivan—"
"Tell me to stop. If you don't want this, tell me right now, and I'll walk away, maybe."
She looks at me for a long moment. I can see the war in her eyes—fear and desire, sense and wanting, all of it tangled together.
"I don't know," she whispers finally. "I don't know what I want."
"Yes, you do." I lean closer, my other hand coming up to frame her face. "You've known since you drew that first sketch. Since you marked those pages. Since you lied to Dmitri's men for me."
"That's not fair."
"Nothing about this is fair. But it's real." My thumb brushes her cheek. "And you want every last ounce of it."
"How do you know?"
"Because I feel the same way."
"Ivan—"
"Tell me you don't feel it. Tell me you don't lie awake thinking about this. About me. About all the ways you want me to touch you."
Her breathing is ragged now. "I can't."
"Can't what?"
"Can't tell you that. Because it would be a lie." She closes her eyes. "I think about it constantly. About you. About this. And I hate myself for it because I should be scared. Should want to escape. Should want to be normal."
"Fuck normal." I tilt her face up. "Look at me."
She opens her eyes.
"You're not normal. You never were." My voice drops. "And I'm grateful for it. Normal wouldn't want me. Normal wouldn't be sitting here soaking wet and trying to pretend she doesn't want me to kiss her."
"I don't—" But the protest dies on her lips.
"Still lying to yourself?"
"Yes. No. I don't know." She sighs. "This is crazy."
"Most good things are."
"You keep saying that."
"It's true." I lean closer, my lips hovering above hers. "Last chance. Tell me to stop."
She's trembling now. "I should."
"But you won't."
"No." Her hands come up and fist in my hair.
"Finally." I close the distance between us. "You're speaking my language now."
I crash my mouth to hers.
Her lips are soft, uncertain at first, then hungry as she kisses me back.
My hands are in her hair, on her face, pulling her closer. Her lips open under mine, and I take full advantage, deepening the kiss. Claiming her the way I've wanted to for three months.
She makes a sound against my mouth—part moan, part surrender. When I finally pull back, we're both breathing hard.
"Still think this is a bad idea?" I ask.
"Absolutely. But I don't care anymore."
"That's my girl."
"I'm not your—"
But I kiss her again before she can finish.
Because she is mine. Has been since the moment she chose danger over safety.
And now she's finally admitting it.
The rest can wait. The rules. The world. The consequences.
Right now, there's just this—her mouth on mine, her hands in my hair, and the knowledge that I'm keeping her.
Forever.