Chapter 17 Mila
Mila
I can’t stop replaying the sound of Nikolay’s bones breaking.
The drive back to the estate passes in suffocating silence. Alexei is beside me in the SUV, covered in blood that’s already drying on his knuckles. Boris drives without speaking. Denis and Anton follow in the second vehicle behind us.
I should be horrified. Disgusted. Terrified of the man who just beat my ex-boyfriend unconscious in front of my entire graduate program.
Instead, I’m soaking wet.
Shame crawls up my spine. What kind of person gets turned on watching someone commit violence? What’s wrong with me that seeing Alexei lose control like that made heat gather between my legs and my nipples harden?
I steal a glance at him. He stares out the window, jaw locked tight. The look of a man replaying every second of a mistake.
Blood spatters his white shirt. His knuckles are split and swollen. He looks dangerous. Feral. Like the predator he’s always been underneath the expensive suits and French poetry.
I’ve never wanted him more.
The image of him crossing that conference room keeps flashing through my mind. The way he moved so fast and determined. How his hand wrapped around Nikolay’s wrist and twisted. The sound of bones snapping. Nikolay’s scream.
My thighs clench together involuntarily.
“Mila—” Alexei starts.
“Don’t.”
“We need to talk about what happened.”
“I said don’t.”
He falls silent. Good. If he tries to explain or justify or apologize right now, I might lose whatever fragile control I’m clinging to, climb into his lap in the back of this SUV with Boris driving, and do something we’ll both regret.
Or maybe we wouldn’t regret it.
That thought scares me more than anything else.
I press my forehead against the cool window and try to think about anything except the way Alexei’s muscles flexed when he hit Nikolay. The way blood sprayed across the floor. How his eyes looked black with rage.
How he did it all because Nikolay touched me.
My ex-boyfriend. Someone I dated two years ago when I was young and stupid and thought I could have a normal relationship despite my family’s world. My parents investigated him because any person in my life required a full background check. The Novikovs were neutrals at the time.
The situation changed along the way. Now, Nikolay works for the family that wants to kidnap me and use me as leverage.
And Alexei destroyed him for it.
The possessiveness of that act should make me demand that he take me home immediately and never contact me again.
Instead, it makes me want to tear his clothes off with my teeth.
I adjust myself in my seat, trying to ease the ache between my legs. Movement only makes me more aware of how empty I feel and how badly I need him inside me again.
The rest of the drive is torture. Every bump in the road sends vibrations through my body that make me want to whimper. Every time Alexei moves behind me, I catch his scent.
Fuck. I’m losing my mind.
Finally, we pull through the estate gates. Boris parks in front of the main house. Alexei climbs out, opens my door, and holds out his hand like a gentleman.
Like he hadn’t just beaten someone half to death thirty minutes ago.
I ignore his hand and get out on my own. My legs are shaky. Whether from adrenaline or arousal, I can’t tell.
We walk to the front door in silence. He unlocks it and steps inside. I follow him into the entryway and hear the lock click behind us.
The sound of the lock engaging flips a switch in my brain and removes the last shred of restraint I’ve been holding onto.
I whirl around, snatch the collar of his shirt, and shove him against the wall. Hard. His back hits with a satisfying thud, and his eyes widen with surprise.
“Mila, what—”
I cut him off with my mouth on his, sudden and reckless. The moment my tongue grazes his, he responds—hands gripping my waist before his brain catches up and he starts to pull away.
“We need to talk about what happened at the university,” he breathes against my lips.
I reply with a breathless, “I don’t want to talk.”
“You’re in shock. The adrenaline is making you—”
I kiss him again and bite his lower lip. “Stop. Talking.”
“You watched me nearly kill someone today,” he reminds me. “You should be scared of me. Not—”
My hand finds him, hard beneath the fabric. He groans. Proof I’m not the only one losing control.
“Still want to talk?” I ask.
“Fuck.” He grabs my hips but doesn’t push me away. “You don’t understand what you’re doing.”
“I know exactly what I’m doing. I’m touching the man who broke my ex-boyfriend’s bones for daring to put his hands on me. The man who looked like a beautiful nightmare covered in blood. The man who makes me so wet I can barely think straight.”
His pupils dilate. “Mila—”
I silence him by pulling my blouse over my head and dropping it on the floor between us. His eyes go dark as they rake over my black lace bra, and he lets out a low, animalistic growl.
“Still think I don’t know what I’m doing?” I ask.
“Jesus Christ,” he breathes.
“Touch me, or I’ll take care of myself.”
He stares at me for a heartbeat, trying to decide if this is really what I want. If I’m thinking clearly. If he should be the responsible one and stop this before it goes further.
Then he grabs my face in both hands and kisses me like he’s trying to devour me. Tongues and teeth and barely restrained violence make my knees weak and my core clench.
I fist my hands in his bloody shirt and pull him closer. I need him against me, to feel every hard plane of muscle and know he’s real and here and mine… for tonight, at least.
His hands glide over my body. Over my ribs. Along my spine. Down to cup my ass and lift me against him like I weigh nothing.
I wrap my legs around his waist and grind against the bulge in his pants. The friction makes me moan into his mouth.
“Upstairs,” I gasp between kisses.
He carries me through the house and up the stairs without breaking the kiss. Alexei kicks open the door to his room and sets me on the bed with surprising gentleness, given the franticness of moments before.
I reach for his shirt, but he catches my wrists.
“Wait.”
“I’m done waiting.”
“Just—” He takes a step back and runs both hands through his hair. “I need to clean up. I’m covered in blood.”
“I don’t care.”
“I do. Give me two minutes.”
He disappears into the bathroom before I can argue. I hear water running. Clothes hitting the floor. The sound of him washing away evidence of what he did for me.
Every second he’s gone makes me more desperate. More aware of the emptiness inside me that only he can fill.
I reach behind my back and unclasp my bra, letting it fall to the floor. Then I shimmy out of my pants and underwear until I’m naked on his bed.
The cool air makes my nipples harden even more. I’m hyperaware of how exposed I am, but I don’t cover myself or second-guess this decision. I want him to see me like this. I want him to know what I’m offering.
The bathroom door opens. Alexei steps out wearing only a towel wrapped around his waist. His hair is damp, and his skin is clean. All traces of blood have been washed away as if it never happened.
He stops in the doorway when he sees me, and he stares at me with something like reverence.
“Come here,” I order, crooking my finger.
He crosses the room slowly, like he’s giving me time to change my mind, realize this is a terrible idea, and tell him to leave.
When he reaches the bed, I grab the towel and yank it off him.
His cock springs free, thick and already leaking from the tip.
“I’ve been thinking about this,” I admit.
“Have you?”
“Every night since you left. Remembering how you felt. How you tasted.”
“Every night?” His voice drops to a dangerous whisper, and something predatory slides across his face. “Did you touch yourself while you thought about me?”
“Yes,” I admit, heat flooding my cheeks.
“Tell me how. Did you use your fingers and imagine they were mine?” His hand comes up to cup my jaw, and his thumb brushes across my bottom lip. “Did you pretend it was my mouth on you instead of your touch?”
“Yes,” I breathe.
“Where did you touch yourself? Here?” His hand trails down my throat. “Or here?” He uses a finger to trace around one bare nipple.
My pulse races under his touch. “Both.”
“Show me.” The command is quiet but absolute. “Right here. Show me how you touched yourself when you thought about my cock inside you.”
My breath catches. That voice. Low. Commanding. It hits me like a spark and melts straight through me.
I hesitate for just a moment before slowly sliding my hand down my body and over my stomach, while maintaining eye contact. I rub the moist spot between my legs, and he smirks.
“That’s it,” he growls, watching my hand move. “But we both know the real thing is so much better than your fingers, don’t we?”
In affirmation, I wrap my hand around him and stroke once, longingly.
“Fuck.” His hips buck into my hand. “You’re going to kill me, Zaika.”
“Good. Now go sit in that chair.” I nod toward the armchair in the corner of his room.
“Mila—”
“Sit. Down.”
He squints at me but does as I ask. Once he’s seated, he rests his hands on the armrests, and I see how tightly he’s gripping them.
Good. Let him be the one who’s off-balance for once.
I stand from the bed and take a step toward him. Then another. Taking my time.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
I stop just out of reach. Close enough that he can see all of me but can’t touch.
“Like what you see?” I ask.
He lets out a low, rumbling sound, “You know I do.”
I walk toward him, and when I reach the chair, I place my hands on the armrests beside his. Then, I lean in close enough that my breasts brush against his chest.
“You’re killing me,” he groans.
“Good.”
I straddle his lap without sitting down, hovering above him so my body is inches from his but not quite touching. He can see everything and feel my heat, but he can’t have it yet.
His hands come up to grab me, but I catch his wrists.
“No touching. Not yet.”
“This is torture.”
“That’s the point,” I giggle.
I lower myself just enough to let my wetness brush against the head of his cock. I rock forward and grind against him. His cock is rock hard, and I feel it throbbing.
I wrap my hand around him, stroking him agonizingly slowly as I gather the precum with my thumb and use it to ease the glide.
“Fuck, Mila.”
“Tell me what you want,” I say as I continue stroking him.
“I want you on my cock. Right now.”
“Not specific enough.”
I increase my pace. My other hand cups his balls, and he nearly comes off the chair.
“I want—” He cuts off with a groan when I twist my wrist on the upstroke. “I want to watch you sink onto me. To feel you take every inch and see your face when I fill you.”
“Better.”
I position myself above him, lowering until just the tip breaches me. The stretch makes me gasp. Even after everything we’ve done, he still feels huge.
I sink another inch, but his hands come up to grip my hips, stopping me from going any lower.
Before I can ask what he’s doing, he tells me, “If you want my dick, you’re going to need to tell me what you want. In explicit detail. Every single thing. I need to hear you say it. Step by step. Leave nothing out.”
Heat scalds my face. It’s one thing to show him with my body, but it’s another thing to describe what I want him to do to me.
“I don’t—”
“Yes, you do. You know what you want. Now tell me.”
I bite my lip and look down at where we’re connected. The tip of his cock has disappeared inside of me. I feel so full.
But he’s not going to move or give me what I need until I ask for it. Until I admit exactly what I want from him.
“Tell me, Mila,” he prompts again, “what do you want me to do to you?”