15. Lena
LENA
The coppery tang of his blood floods my mouth, a metallic shock that does nothing to stop him. If anything, it fuels him.
Razvan’s kiss is a punishment, a claiming, his tongue forcing past my lips to duel with mine, licking the blood from my own teeth.
I shove against the solid wall of his chest, my hands trapped between us, but he doesn’t budge.
He’s a mountain of tailored black wool and cold fury.
My wedding dress, a ridiculous confection of silk and lace, feels like a trap.
He breaks the kiss just enough to growl against my mouth, his breath hot and smelling of expensive whiskey. “You draw my blood, malyshka? Now you taste it.”
His hands, those large, brutal hands that signed my father’s death warrant, slide down my back.
One palm splays against the base of my spine, crushing the delicate fabric, yanking my hips flush against his. The hard, thick ridge of his cock presses into my lower stomach, even through his pants and my layers of skirt. A traitorous, liquid heat sparks low in my belly.
No. Not again. Never again.
I twist my face away, gasping. “Get off me.”
“This is our wedding night,” he murmurs, his lips traveling down my jaw to my throat. He doesn’t ask. He doesn’t request. He states. His teeth scrape the frantic pulse beating there, and my whole body goes rigid. “You are my wife. My property. And you will scream my name before the sun rises.”
“I’ll scream, alright,” I hiss, arching away, but his arm is an iron bar. “I’ll scream for the police.”
A low, dark laugh vibrates against my skin. “Scream. Let all of Brooklyn hear how the Pakhan’s new bride comes apart.”
His mouth finds mine again, and this kiss is different. It’s still dominant, still controlling, but there’s a calculated shift.
His tongue strokes along mine now, a slow, wet promise instead of a violent invasion.
One hand comes up to cradle my jaw, his thumb stroking my cheekbone.
The contrast is maddening. The other hand slides lower, cupping my ass through the silk, kneading the flesh there with a firm, knowing pressure.
A soft, unwilling sound escapes me, a muffled whimper against his lips.
I hate him. I hate him. I hate the way he makes my skin feel too tight.
He senses the crack in my armor. His kisses turn slower, deeper, devouring.
He tastes of blood and power and a dark, addictive spice.
My struggles become less forceful, my pushes against his chest turning into a trembling press of my palms. The room, his vast, opulent bedroom with its dark woods and chilling elegance, seems to spin.
The only anchor is the demanding heat of his mouth and the hard promise of his body holding me up.
His fingers find the long zipper at the back of my dress. The sound is obscenely loud in the quiet room, a slow, hissing unveiling. Cool air kisses my exposed spine, inch by inch. I should fight. I should knee him in the groin and run.
But my son’s face flashes behind my eyes, his safety, the reason for this farce of a marriage, and my body goes pliant with a despair that feels like surrender.
The heavy dress pools at my feet, leaving me in only a scrap of white lace panties, bra, and my heels.
Razvan breaks the kiss, his dark eyes drinking me in.
His gaze is a physical touch, scalding as it travels from my flushed face, over my breasts straining against my bra, down my stomach to the damp patch already darkening the lace between my thighs.
His expression is hungry, possessive, utterly satisfied.
“See?” he says, his voice a gravelly rumble. “Your body remembers its master. It betrays you, Lena.”
“Shut up,” I whisper, but there’s no force behind it. My nipples are tight, aching points against the lace of my bra. He sees it. Of course he sees it.
He doesn’t remove my bra. Instead, he hooks a single finger under the center, between my breasts, and pulls.
The fragile lace snaps without protest.
My breasts spill free, full and heavy, my nipples a deep, flushed pink in the low light. A sharp gasp leaves me. He palms one breast, his touch shockingly hot, his thumb circling the taut peak. A jolt of pure, undiluted pleasure arcs straight to my core, and my knees buckle.
He catches me, lowering us both to the edge of the massive bed.
He pushes me back until I’m lying on the dark duvet, my legs dangling off the side.
He stands between them, a dark god looking down at his sacrifice.
His eyes are locked on my pussy, barely concealed by the sheer lace of my panties.
The strip of fabric is soaked, clinging to my outer lips, outlining the swollen flesh beneath.
“So ready for me,” he observes, his voice thick. “Always so fucking wet. Even when you spit hate, this sweet cunt weeps for my cock.”
“Don’t call it that,” I breathe, but I’m spreading my legs wider, a shameless, instinctive tilt of my hips. The cool air feels good on my overheated skin.
The need is a pounding, humiliating drumbeat inside me.
He drops to his knees on the Persian rug.
The sight is so profoundly shocking I stop breathing.
Razvan, the Pakhan, on his knees before me.
But there is no submission here. This is worship of the most carnal kind.
He hooks his thumbs into the sides of my panties and drags them down my legs, taking my heels with them. I’m completely bare to him.
And he looks. He stares at my pussy with an intensity that makes me want to cover myself and arch into his gaze all at once.
My outer lips are full, a plush, darker pink, glistening with my arousal.
They part slightly, offering a glimpse of the tighter, brighter pink inner flesh, already slick and swollen.
I’m clean-shaven, a detail he seems to appreciate, his eyes tracing the smooth, exposed skin.
A single, thick drop of wetness gathers at my entrance and slides down toward my ass.
His gaze follows its path with predatory focus.
“Ideal’no,” he breathes. Perfect.
Then he leans forward and licks me. Not a tentative taste, but a long, flat stroke from my asshole all the way up through my soaked folds to my clit.
My back bows off the bed, a silent scream tearing from my throat.
The sensation is electric, brutal in its precision.
His tongue is hot, rough, and relentless.
He doesn’t tease. He feasts. He parts my lips with his thumbs, holding me open, and drives his tongue inside my cunt.
The invasion is deep, fucking me with his tongue, curling it to press against spots that make stars burst behind my eyelids.
“Razvan…” It’s a plea, a curse. I don’t know which.
He answers by shifting his focus. His mouth seals over my clit, and he sucks.
Hard. His tongue flicks the ultrasensitive bud in a rapid, dizzying rhythm.
One of his hands leaves my hip and slides up my body, pinching my nipple, rolling it between his fingers with just the right edge of pain.
The dual assault shatters my last pretense of resistance.
A raw, guttural moan rips from my chest. My hands fly to his hair, not to push him away, but to fist in the dark strands, holding him to me.
My hips jerk off the bed, fucking his face, seeking more pressure, more friction, more of that devastating mouth.
The coil inside me, wound tight for years with hate and fear, is unraveling with terrifying speed under his expert ministrations.
“That’s it,” he grunts against my pussy, his breath hot on my wet flesh. “Give it up. Come on my tongue, Lena. Let me taste you come.”
His words are the final trigger. The orgasm crashes over me like a wave of black velvet, violent and total.
My vision whites out. A broken, continuous cry is torn from my lips as I convulse, my cunt clenching around nothing, drenching his mouth and chin.
He drinks it all, his tongue lapping at me, prolonging the shocks until I’m a trembling, sobbing wreck on the duvet.
Before the last tremor has even faded, he’s moving. I hear the rasp of his zipper, the rustle of clothes being shoved out of the way. I’m boneless, spent, floating in a haze of shameful satiation. He climbs onto the bed, looming over me, his own clothing discarded. I force my eyes to focus.
His cock is as imposing as the rest of him. Thick, long, and brutally hard, it stands out from a nest of dark hair. The head is a deep, flushed purple, glistening with a bead of pre-cum. A prominent vein runs along the underside. It’s a weapon, and he’s about to use it.
He spreads my legs wider, hooking my knees over his elbows, lifting my hips. The position leaves me utterly exposed, my well-used pussy on blatant display for him. He notches the broad head at my entrance, rubbing it through the slick mess he created.
“Look at me,” he commands, his voice strained.
My gaze, hazy and defeated, lifts to his. His face is a mask of feral hunger, his lips still wet from me. There’s no tenderness there. Only conquest.
“This cunt is mine,” he says, each word a hammer blow. “It always was. And now I take it back.”
He pushes forward.
The stretch is immense, breathtaking. I’m wet, so fucking wet from my orgasm, but he’s huge.
He fills me with an inexorable, burning pressure that steals the air from my lungs.
He doesn’t stop until he’s fully seated, his hips pressed flush against mine, his cock buried to the hilt inside me.
A choked sound escapes me, part pain, part overwhelming fullness.
“Bozhe moy,” he groans, his head dropping forward for a second. “You’re so fucking tight. Like a fist.”