Chapter 20
LILA
Ivan explodes into my mouth.
His whole body goes rigid, hand fisting in my hair so tight it hurts in the best way.
His heartbeat thrums through him—racing, pounding, alive.
Proof that I did this. That I, Lila the waitress who can barely serve coffee without spilling it, made Ivan Petrov, the lethal Pakhan who broke a man's fingers like breadsticks, completely lose control.
The rush of power makes my head spin.
Or that could be the lack of oxygen. Hard to tell.
I swallow. The action is intimate in a way that goes beyond the obvious. Like I'm accepting all of him, not just this.
God, when did I become the kind of person who has profound thoughts while giving head? Focus, Lila.
I look up at him slowly, still on my knees, and—
Fuck.
He’s so devastatingly hot it's almost unfair.
Hair messed up from my hands running through it.
Jaw clenched. Dark eyes locked on me like I'm the only thing that exists in his world.
Not the blood drying on the floor. Not the aftermath of violence hanging in the air.
Not the Bratva politics or the men who fled.
Just me.
The intensity of his gaze makes my chest flutter—dangerous and warm and terrifying.
I stand slowly, legs slightly shaky, and meet his eyes before I kiss him. I let him taste himself on my tongue, and the way he groans into my mouth makes everything inside me clench with want.
Wasn't I just satisfied two seconds ago?
My hands move to his tie. The silk is smooth under my fingers. I loosen it slowly, savoring the act of undressing him. It’s like unwrapping a present. A very hot, very dangerous, very illegal present that might get me killed, but God, what a way to go.
The tie slides free, and I drop it to the blood of a ruined meeting.
His suit jacket is next. The fabric is heavy and well-tailored.
Then his shirt. Each button I undo is monumental. Important. Like I'm revealing a sacred truth underneath—smooth skin, hard muscle, evidence that he's human.
"Let me show you how much I don't regret this," I whisper against his mouth.
I'm working on his pants, fingers fumbling with his belt, when he lifts me without warning.
He picks me up like I weigh nothing, like I'm not a fully grown woman and my stomach does that roller coaster drop drop. Just as suddenly, I'm on the table.
Before I can process what's happening, my shorts are gone. My panties follow the same path, disappearing, and his hands are on my thighs, spreading my legs wide. Wider than I knew they could go.
Here, I'm completely exposed. On his meeting table. Where he conducts business. Where important decisions get made about territory and shipments and who lives and who dies.
"They all want me to choose their daughters?" His accent is thicker than usual. He looks at me spread out, and a predatory glint crosses his face. "Let them smell you on this table next time."
Oh fuck.
That shouldn't be hot. That should be crude and possessive and too much. But it is hot. It's so hot I can barely breathe.
He's hard again. How is that even possible? Don't men need recovery time? I thought there were rules about this. Biological limitations.
Apparently, Ivan doesn't follow those rules any more than he follows other rules.
His fingers come first. Two of them, sliding into me without warning, without preparation, pushing in and twisting in ways that make my back arch off the cold wood. Cold table, hot body, and his fingers curling inside me, finding spots that make my vision blur.
"Ivan—"
He replaces his fingers with himself, and I lose the ability to form words.
Oh God.
The first thrust steals my breath. Punches it right out of my lungs.
He doesn't ease in, doesn't give me time to adjust, doesn't do any of that gentle, considerate stuff.
Just takes. Claims. Pushes in hard and deep, and suddenly he's filling me completely, and I can't think, can't breathe, can only feel.
My back slides against the polished wood with each brutal thrust. The surface is slick now. The movement pushes me across the table. My hand flails out to steady myself and knocks over a glass.
It rolls over the edge and shatters on the floor with a crash that barely registers.
I don't care.
Papers scatter under me. Someone's report. Charts maybe. Graphs with numbers and projections. Important documents that are now getting crumpled and ruined.
I don't care about those either.
All I care about is this—the stretch of him inside me, the almost-too-much fullness, the way he fills me so completely I can't tell where he ends and I begin. The way he looks at me like I'm a conquest. A claim. His.
I moan. The sound escapes before I can stop it, echoing in the empty room, probably carrying down the hallway where Pyotr can hear, where anyone can hear.
"That's it," he growls,. "Let them hear you. Let everyone know who you belong to."
He pulls out suddenly, and I whimper at the loss. Empty. Wrong. I need him back.
But then I’m lifted again, carried across the room like I'm nothing. My back hits the wall, and the impact should hurt, but it doesn't. Instead, I gasp, and my legs wrap around his waist automatically, no thought required, only instinct.
And he's inside me again.
This angle is different. Deeper. Hitting places that make me see actual stars, make my head fall back against the wall, make sounds come out of my mouth that I didn't know I could make.
Every surface. He's claiming every surface with us. With this. The table, the wall; the floor next if we keep going. Marking his territory in the most primal way possible.
"You've been silent," he says against my throat, and I can feel his smile against my skin.
Silent? I've been moaning like—oh. He means talking. Words. Those things I usually have too many of.
"Can't help it." The words come out broken by his movements. "You're making it hard to think."
"Good." Another thrust, perfectly timed with the word. "Don't think. Feel."
"I'm feeling—oh God—I'm feeling everything." Too much. Not enough. "I'm feeling more than I ever imagined."
He shifts his angle, and I cry out, fingers digging into his shoulders hard enough to leave crescent moons from my nails. Evidence. Proof this happened.
Perfect. Let him have proof tomorrow. Let him feel my marks and remember this.
"What happens to Dmitri?"
Why am I asking this now? Why is my brain even functioning enough to form questions when I can barely remember my own name?
Ivan's movements slow but don't stop. A steady roll of his hips that maintains the pressure, the fullness, while he considers my question. "You know what happens."
I swallow hard. My throat feels tight. He'll die. That's what happens. That's what Ivan does to people who disrespect him, who threaten what's his, who try to take me away.
Dmitri will die because of me. Because Ivan chose me. Because I'm here instead of gone.
"How do you feel about that?"
The question hangs. This is a test. Or maybe he genuinely wants to know if I'm okay with what he is. With what he does. If I can accept this part of him along with the rest.
"If he'll get between us..." I whisper, then pause, feeling the weight of what I'm about to say. About the line I'm about to cross. "Then I don't care."
The words come out as a whisper, barely audible over our breathing and the sounds of our bodies, but I mean them.
God help me, I mean them. Some man I've never met, who tried to make Ivan give me up, who probably offered his relative as a replacement, like I'm some broken appliance that needs upgrading—I don't care if he dies.
Ivan smiles. Actually smiles, and it's not his careful Pakhan smile or his dangerous smile or any of the smiles I've catalogued. It's genuine. Pleased. Proud maybe.
Then he thrusts hard enough that my head hits the wall and I gasp, the philosophical moment shattered by pure sensation.
He reaches for his phone on the table, somehow managing to keep me pinned against the wall with one arm while his other hand grabs the device.
"I'm Viktor Petrov's son," he snarls against my throat, low and possessive and vibrating through my skin. "I choose who I want and take what's mine."
He dials a number and puts the call on speaker.
Oh god. Oh no. Is he really—?
"Dmitri. Your deal?"
My whole body goes rigid. He's calling Dmitri. Right now. While we're—while he's literally inside me—
No. This is—
“Petrov?” It’s Dmitri. So this is the guy. “Decided to change your mind, have you?”
Ivan thrusts harder. The movement is designed specifically to make me moan, which I do. Loudly. The sound tears out of me before I can stop it.
"Hear that?" Ivan's words are filled with pure satisfaction. "That's my answer. She's mine."
Oh fuck. He's—we're—this is actually happening.
"Is that—are you—"
This is my cue. I understand suddenly. I get what he's doing, what he's showing Dmitri. What he's proving.
I moan again. Louder this time. More deliberate. I let Dmitri hear what his "deal" means to Ivan.
"Fucking her? Yes. While talking to you? Also yes." Another thrust. "Take your deal and shove it up your ass."
He hangs up and throws the phone somewhere. It clatters against a hard surface, but I don't care enough to look.
Then he really starts moving.
Harder. Faster. Rougher than before.
My back slams against the wall with each thrust, and I should complain, should say it hurts, but it doesn't hurt. It’s exactly what I need.
"New rule," he growls into my ear, dark and commanding. "When I come home, you'll be ready however I instruct. Naked. Tied. Kneeling. Whatever I want."
I nod frantically, unable to form words. "Yes. Anything. Whatever you want. I'll be ready."
"Good girl."
He keeps going. Rougher and rougher until I forget everything else.
All I'm aware of now is this—us. Him inside me. My nails scratching down his back leaving marks he'll feel later. The way he says my name like it's a prayer and a curse and a claim all at once.
Fuck normal. Fuck safe.
The pressure builds inside me again. That familiar tightening, that heat spreading from my core outward through every nerve ending. I'm close. So close. Too close.
"Ivan—" His name comes out as a gasp, a plea. "I'm gonna—I can't—"
"Do it," he commands,. "Come for me. Let me feel it."
The orgasm crashes over me like a tsunami, stealing my vision. I can't see, can't think, can only feel—the pulsing, the clenching, the absolute overwhelming pleasure. I hear myself screaming his name, but it sounds distant, as if someone else is making it.
He follows a second later. He pulses inside me, and I feel the exact moment he loses control completely. My name tears from his throat like it's the only word he knows.
We stay together, frozen in time. Connected. Both of us breathing hard, trembling, coming down as one.
My legs remain wrapped around his waist. His forehead presses against mine. His heartbeat goes from racing to gradually slowing, matching mine.
This is it. Like the novels promised.
This is what it feels like to be completely, irrevocably, dangerously his.
And I wouldn't change a single thing.