Chapter 18Damir
18
Damir
I end the video conference with a nod, watching as the faces of my international investors disappear from the screen. The deal is done—twenty million secured for the new development on the east side of the city. Another piece of my empire shifting from shadow to light.
“Anton?” I call, and he appears in the doorway of my study. “Make sure the paperwork is filed properly. I want this project above reproach.”
“Of course.” His expression remains neutral, but I detect the slight lift in his voice. He appreciates these legitimate ventures as much as I do. Less blood and more profit.
I check my watch, It’s 6:48 p.m. Elena should have been home almost thirty minutes ago, and our reservation is at 8:30. This is unusual for her, since she values punctuality almost as much as I do. I tap my phone, scrolling through the security reports. No messages from her and nothing concerning from her detail, but...
My phone vibrates with a text from Valeriya: Dr. Clarke mentioned not feeling well at hospital. On our way now.
I frown. Elena sick? She rarely complains about anything, even when she works thirty-six hour shifts. “Anton,” I call, waiting until he returns to the doorway to say, “Cancel our reservation at Lumière. Call Marcello’s instead and have them send over the usual selection but add those chocolate soufflés Elena likes.”
Viktor nods and disappears to make the arrangements. I move through the penthouse, straightening items that don’t need straightening. Four months of marriage today. Not that Elena would consider it a real anniversary since our arrangement was supposed to be temporary and clinical. Six months of marriage to provide me an alibi, then she’d be free.
Yet everything is different now. I’m different.
Moments later, the elevator announces her arrival with a soft chime. I turn as the doors open, revealing Elena with Valeriya at her side. My wife looks pale, her normally vibrant complexion washed out under the elevator lights.
“Thank you, Valeriya. That will be all for tonight,” I say, dismissing the security detail.
Elena steps into the penthouse, removing her coat with mechanical movements. I take it from her, hanging it in the closet. “You’re late,” I observe, keeping my tone neutral.
“Sorry. Got caught up at the hospital.” Her voice lacks its usual energy.
“Are you unwell?” I ask, studying her face. Dark circles shadow her eyes, and she moves with a sluggishness that concerns me.
“Just tired. Long day.” She offers a weak smile that doesn’t really soften her reflection. “I thought we were going out tonight,” she says, frowning as she notices I’m wearing black slacks and a casual sweater. “Are you running late too?”
“No, but our plans have changed. You’re tired, so we’ll eat here.”
She nods absently, not protesting at all. She appears relieved, letting me know I’ve made the right decision. “Let me shower and change.” She disappears upstairs for twenty minutes, giving the food time to arrive.
I wait in the dining room, and soon, the doorbell rings. Moments later, a maid appears with a rolling cart to set up our meal. Marcello’s is as prompt as ever, I see. The table is arranged with candles and flowers. It’s not my usual style, but I’ve learned Elena appreciates these gestures, and it’s our anniversary.
When she returns, her hair is damp from the shower, and she’s wearing a skirt and sleeveless top with no makeup. She’s mouth-watering.
It’s all I can do to keep from detouring her to my lap when she takes her seat. The maid serves us a selection of Elena’s favorites. Truffle risotto, pan-seared scallops, and roasted vegetables. I pour white wine but notice she doesn’t touch her glass. “Not drinking tonight?” I ask, watching as she pushes food around her plate without eating.
“Not in the mood.” She yawns. “It’ll knock me right out.”
I continue eating, though my appetite has diminished. Something is wrong. Elena normally devours good food with enthusiasm, especially after hospital shifts. Tonight, she’s barely touched anything. “How was your day?” I try again.
“Fine.” She takes a small bite of risotto, then sets down her fork. “Busy.”
“Elena.” I set down my own utensils. “What’s wrong?”
She looks up. “Casey tried to see me today.”
My hand tightens around my wine glass. “Where?”
“Outside the hospital. He was waiting in the parking lot.”
“What did he want?” My voice remains calm, though inside I’m calculating how quickly I could have Casey Harris removed from Earth.
“The usual. Trying to convince me you’re manipulating me. That I should come back to him.” She shakes her head. “As if that would ever happen.”
“Did Valeriya intervene?”
“No need. I handled it.” She finally takes a sip of water. “What are you doing about him, Damir? Why is it taking so long?”
I lean back in my chair, considering how much to tell her. Elena knows what I am now, but I still try to shield her from the uglier aspects of my business. “Casey’s finances are destroyed. His credit is ruined. I’ve helpfully given his location to his creditors, who are calling him day and night. He’s been evicted from his apartment and is staying in a motel that charges by the hour or the week. His car was repossessed last week.”
Elena listens, her expression unreadable.
“The strip clubs and gambling establishments where he spent most of your money now have him barred at the door. Tiffany has been informed he’s a scumbag and dropped him. Every potential employer in the city has received an anonymous tip about his history of theft. His school applications have all been rejected due to ‘character concerns.’” I take a sip of wine. “He’s also being investigated for tax fraud. The evidence was quite compelling.”
“That’s it?” she asks.
“For now. You asked me not to kill him.”
She nods slowly, then stands abruptly. I watch as she walks around the table toward me, her movements suddenly purposeful. She stops directly in front of my chair.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
She reaches for my face, cupping my jaw. “Showing my appreciation...and happy anniversary.”
The shift in her demeanor is immediate. Her eyes darken to obsidian pools, and her breathing quickens to shallow gasps that brush against my face. She leans down and presses her lips to mine with an urgency that surprises me, her mouth warm and insistent. This isn’t our usual careful dance of desire but something raw and desperate, born from what, I can’t quite name.
I remain still, allowing her to take control, curious about this sudden transformation. She climbs onto my lap, straddling me in the dining chair, her skirt riding up her thighs until I feel the heat of her skin against mine. She tangles her fingers in my hair, pulling slightly as she deepens the kiss, her tongue seeking entrance.
“Elena,” I murmur against her lips, drawing back just enough to see her expression. “What’s this about?”
Her weight settles more firmly against me, the dining chair creaking beneath us. She hovers, her lips a whisper from mine. “I want you,” she whispers. “Now.” Her voice is raw, trembling with something primal that sets fire to my blood.
Who am I to deny her? I stand, lifting her with me in one fluid motion. She gasps, then locks her legs around my waist, her skirt bunching between us as I carry her from the dining room.
“Where—?”
“Study,” I murmur against her neck. “Unless you want me to take you right on top of our dinner?”
Her laugh vibrates against my throat as she tugs at my tie, working the silk loose with impatient fingers. “Too many dishes in the way.”
I kick open the study door, not bothering with the light. Moonlight spills through the tall windows, painting her skin silver as I set her on the edge of my desk. Papers scatter—contracts worth millions but meaningless compared to her.
Elena immediately pulls me between her thighs, attacking the buttons of my shirt. There’s something frantic in how she yanks the fabric apart, two buttons popping free and skittering across hardwood.
“Easy,” I say, catching her wrist, studying her face. Elena is typically measured, deliberate even in passion. I’ve memorized her rhythms and patterns. Tonight she’s different—wild, desperate. Unleashed.
“Don’t want easy,” she mumbles against my mouth, biting my bottom lip. “Want you.”
She pushes my shirt from my shoulders with impatient hands, fabric sliding down my arms until it whispers to the floor. Her palms, cool against my heated skin, explore my chest with reverence, following the black lines of ink that mark my body. Eagle wings spread across my shoulders represent authority. The crown on my ribcage is for leadership. The saints watching over me, the weapons protecting me… Each mark is a chapter in my bloody ascension through the Bratva .
“So many,” she murmurs, fingertips hovering over the double-headed eagle sprawling across my pectorals.
When her exploration leads her to the puckered scar near my heart, where a 9mm round nearly punched my ticket three years ago in a warehouse ambush, she stills. Her expression softens. She’s seen the scar before but always avoided it and asking about it. This time, she leans forward, pressing warm lips against the damaged tissue.
“Elena,” I say softly, startled by such gentleness amid her frenzy.
The contrast splits something open inside me. Moments ago, she was clawing at me like a storm and is now kissing my wounds with such delicacy. I cup her face between my palms, stroking her cheekbones, and guide her gaze up to mine. “Look at me,” I command, needing to understand what burns behind her eyes tonight. “What’s happening here?”
“I need this,” she says, her eyes bright with unshed tears. “I need you.”
I don’t understand the emotion behind her words, but I understand need. I’ve needed Elena since the moment I saw her in that hospital, caring for Anton with competence and compassion. I’ve needed her in ways that transcend the physical, in ways I never thought possible for a man like me, whose life has been defined by blood and power rather than tenderness.
She pulls me down for another kiss, curling her fingers around the nape of my neck. “Please, Damir,” she whispers against my mouth. “I don’t want to think anymore.”
I surrender to her demand, claiming her lips with an urgency that matches her own. Her hands move to my belt, unfastening it with determined fingers that tremble slightly. The metal buckle clinks as she works it free, and the sound is sharp in the quiet room.
“Tell me what you need,” I murmur, thumbs tracing the curve of her hips.
“I want you to taste me, and then I want to taste you.” Her voice is raw with desire, each word falling between us like a challenge and a plea.
In her haste, she knocks over a stack of papers on my desk. They cascade across the floor in a white waterfall, contracts and reports I’d spent hours organizing now forgotten. Several leather-bound books follow, tumbling from the edge with heavy thuds against the hardwood.
“Leave them,” I say when her gaze flicks toward the mess. I cup her chin, drawing her attention back to me. She nods, a quick jerk of her head that sends her dark hair falling across her flushed face. Her breathing comes in shallow bursts, chest rising and falling rapidly beneath her blouse.
“Good,” I whisper in the quiet office.
Her fingers resume their work on my belt, fumbling slightly with the expensive leather. The metal buckle clinks as it comes undone. Neither of us looks at the cascade of documents around us at the multi-million-dollar contracts scattered like confetti, their importance evaporated in the heat between us.
The outside world has compressed to nothing but background noise as she drops to her knees before me, the sound of expensive fabric meeting hardwood floor surprisingly loud in the silence. Her hands slide down my thighs, apparently forgetting that she requested I taste her first.
“I thought you said—” I begin, but the words die in my throat when she unfastens the button of my tailored pants with nimble fingers.
My reminder dissolves when she pulls down my zipper with deliberate slowness, the rasp of metal teeth parting seeming to echo through the room. Her warm breath ghosts across my skin when she frees my cock from the confinement of my boxer briefs. The sight of her looking up at me, lips parted and eyes dark with want, makes any thought of stopping her vanish completely.
“Is this okay?” she asks, her voice husky with desire, wrapping her hand firmly around my shaft.
“More than okay,” I say, my voice rough with desire. I inhale sharply when she looks up at me with that devastating blend of innocence and hunger, her pupils dark and expansive.
A blow job is something I rarely allow from anyone. The vulnerability of it—surrendering control and exposing myself completely—has always seemed too dangerous. In my world, weakness invites betrayal. Yet with Elena, those instinctive barriers crumble.
I reach down, threading my fingers through her silky hair. The strands slip between my fingers like water as I gather them gently but firmly in my grasp. “I want to feel your mouth on my cock,” I whisper, guiding her head forward with the slightest pressure. My heartbeat skitters erratically as her lips part, her warm breath teasing my sensitive cock head.
There’s a question in her eyes—seeking permission, confirmation—and I answer with a subtle nod, tightening my grip just enough to communicate my need without forcing her.
She encompasses the tip in her warm mouth, closing her lips around me with a gentle pressure that sends a jolt up my spine. My breath catches when she takes me deeper, inch by inch, sliding her tongue along the underside until I feel my cock touch the back of her throat. The heat of her mouth is a vivid contrast to the cool air on my exposed skin.
“God, Elena,” I whisper, my voice rough with need.
She gazes up at me through dark lashes, a flicker of pride in her eyes as she slowly withdraws, creating a perfect suction that makes me grip her hair tighter. Then she begins to move in a steady rhythm, forward and back, with each stroke accompanied by the swirl of her tongue or the gentle scrape of teeth.
I moan, deep and low, my head falling back as I close my eyelids. My world narrows to this moment, to the wet heat of her mouth and the way her hands caress my thighs, kneading and stroking in time with her movements.
“Just like that,” I murmur, losing myself in her slick, skilled motions. Her fingers trace patterns on my skin that are tender explorations contrasting with the intensity building in my balls and the base of my spine. Each touch feels like a claim, a possession, and I surrender to it completely.
I don’t want it to happen this way though, so I ease her back, lifting her with one arm and splaying her across my desk. More papers scatter, and a pen rolls to the floor with a soft clatter that neither of us acknowledges.
“What are you?—”
“Shhh,” I murmur against her thigh. “Let me take care of you first.”
Her skirt falls across her stomach, bunching around her waist. The sight of her like this—spread across my mahogany desk where I’ve signed death warrants and business deals alike—makes something primal rise in me. I push aside the black silk triangle covering her moist pussy, grazing her slick folds with my fingertips.
“Damir...” She gasps, arching her back slightly off the desk.
I bend my mouth to her, running my tongue along her slit in one long, deliberate stroke. She tastes like salt and sweetness, like everything I’ve denied myself. Her thighs quiver on either side of my head, and I grip them firmly, holding her in place while I worship her with my mouth.
She quivers beneath my mouth, trembling against my face. A high, desperate whine escapes her throat as she rocks against my tongue, seeking more friction and more pressure. I grip her hips tighter, anchoring her to the mahogany desk.
“God, Damir, right there.” She grasps for my buzzed hair, digging fingers into my scalp.
I’ve tasted her countless times—mapped every fold and every sensitive spot—but the hunger never diminishes. Each time feels like a revelation. I flatten my tongue against her swollen clit, drawing slow circles as her breathing quickens.
“Is this what you need?” I murmur against her flesh, the vibration making her hips buck.
Her answer comes as a breathy, “Yes,” that sends heat straight to my throbbing cock.
I adjust my approach based on her body’s tells—pressing harder when she grinds down, flicking lightly when she tenses in anticipation, or sucking gently when she tugs at my hair. Her cream coats my lips and chin. The taste of her, sweet and primal, makes me groan against her pussy.
She stiffens suddenly, arching her back completely off the desk. A raw, guttural sound tears from deep in her chest as her release hits. Her inner walls pulse and contract around my tongue while her thighs clamp around my head as waves of pleasure roll through her body.
She cries out, her voice breaking and fingers clutching at whatever she can reach—my shoulder, the edge of the desk, and finally, some scattered papers now damp with sweat.
I don’t stop until she pushes weakly at my forehead, oversensitive and spent. Then I just reposition, dragging her toward me until her ass reaches the desk’s edge, her skin sliding across the polished wood. I grip her thighs, spreading her legs wide so I can step between them, trembling with need.
“I need to be inside you.” My voice is rough with desire. “Right now.”
She stares into my eyes as I align myself with her pussy, still slick from her release. When I push inside, the sensation nearly blinds me—tight, wet heat enveloping me inch by agonizing inch.
“Elena…” I groan, starting to move with urgent, powerful thrusts that shake the desk beneath her. Papers scatter to the floor while I grip her hips, pulling her onto me with each movement.
I’m almost feral in my need, driven beyond rational thought by the sight of her flushed cheeks, swollen lips, and eyelids half-closed with pleasure. Beneath my desperate pace, I realize she’s matching me thrust for thrust, her hips rolling to meet mine, while her hands grip my shoulders, pulling me closer.
She’s not just taking what I give. She’s claiming me in return. Each whispered “yes” and breathless moan tells me she’s choosing this moment, choosing me, with complete awareness.
The realization pushes me over the edge. My rhythm falters as pressure builds at the base of my spine, coiling tightly before exploding through me. My cock spasms, and I roar her name as I come, burying shaft deeply inside her while my entire body shudders with release. “Mine,” I say in a rough growl against her neck, unable to stop the possessive word from escaping.
To my surprise, she strokes my hair. “Yours,” she says gently, her voice breaking. “I’m yours. You’re mine.”
The admission stuns me. From the beginning, Elena has maintained her independence, reminding me our arrangement is temporary, though I haven’t heard her say that in weeks. Now, she’s surrendering, not just her body but something more.
She’s not fighting anymore. She’s choosing this. Choosing me . For a moment, the world narrows to just this as I savor Elena in blissful aftermath in my arms, choosing me despite knowing exactly who and what I am.