Chapter 22
ANYA
I sat on the stoop of our crumbling home, my chin resting on my knees, trying not to cry. Eighteen wasn’t supposed to feel like this. Eighteen was supposed to be special, meaningful. There should have been cake and candles, my favorite treats from the local store, and maybe a book I’d been saving for.
I’d been planning my birthday for weeks, even saving up a little money from errands around the neighborhood. But it was gone now. My brother Eli found it hidden under my pillow—a really stupid place to hide money. He took it, just like he always did when he needed a quick fix for his gambling.
I felt stupid for hoping this year might be different.
The late afternoon sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows across the street. My mom tried—she really did—but she forgot dates so often I doubted she even remembered it was my birthday. And she was working today, anyway .
I told myself I didn’t care, but the tightness in my chest said otherwise. It’s just a day, I told myself. Just a day like any other. And now I’m eighteen.
Ophelia tried to make it special, but she got in trouble at school, and her mom grounded her. She passed me a note in class that said, “Happy Birthday! Your boobs look so much bigger today.”
It made me laugh and smile at her, but later, I found myself secretly staring at my chest in the mirror, wondering if they actually did look bigger.
I told myself I didn’t care that no one else paid attention to me today. No gifts, no celebration, nothing. My stomach growled, and I wrapped my arms tight around my legs, pretending it was just another normal day.
I was so lost in my thoughts I didn’t hear the footsteps until they were right in front of me.
“Anya.”
I blinked, startled, and looked up to see Semyon standing there. He held a simple white bakery box in one hand and a package wrapped in shiny paper in the other.
He looked so out of place against the peeling paint and cracked pavement of my world. Even dressed casually—a plain black T-shirt that hugged his lean, muscular frame and dark jeans—he radiated a presence that made me feel small and unsteady. He wasn’t like the boys in my class, the ones who stumbled over their words, made fun of me, or teased me about my boobs. No.
Semyon was a man .
Twenty-two to my eighteen. But it wasn’t just his age. He’d been a man for a long time now.
There were rumors about him—how he killed for the Bratva when he was only sixteen, how he was feared on the streets of the city. So feared.
But not by me. I didn’t fear him. I still saw the little boy who taught me how to skip rocks by the creek. The cold Bratva enforcer was just a role he played, not who he really was.
At least, that’s what I told myself.
“Semyon,” I said softly, my voice coming out smaller than I intended. I hoped he couldn’t tell I’d been crying.
“Hey.” He set the bakery box and wrapped package down on the stoop beside me. My heart began to beat faster.
He couldn’t be here for… Did he know?
“Zoya said it was your birthday,” he said simply, lowering himself to sit beside me.
He leaned back with his legs stretched out. His tattoos were visible beneath the sleeves of his shirt—dark ink, intricate patterns swirling across his forearms. I suddenly felt self-conscious.
Too young.
“I didn’t think anyone knew,” I said.
“She pays attention to those things,” he said, his tone neutral.
“Um, what’s in the box?” I asked, quickly deflecting the conversation.
“A cake,” he said as if it were obvious. “Chocolate. ”
My heart squeezed. “Did Zoya tell you I liked chocolate too?” I teased, biting my lip as heat flushed my cheeks.
His lips twitched. “No. Everybody knows you love chocolate.”
Not everybody. My dad wouldn’t. I wasn’t even sure Eli would. My mother might’ve known, but only on a good day.
But Semyon? Semyon knew.
He flipped open the lid of the box, revealing a plain chocolate cake with messy icing swirls. There were no candles or decorations—just the word Anya scrawled across the top in crooked white letters.
“It’s nothing fancy,” he said with a shrug.
“It’s beautiful,” I breathed out, my throat tightening. I bit my lip to keep the tears at bay. “You didn’t have to do this.”
He turned to me then, his piercing blue eyes softening. “Of course I did. You’re my friend.”
Friend. The word hit me like a sledgehammer.
I didn’t want to be his friend. I wanted to be something more. But I was just the little sister of his best friend.
He set the wrapped package beside me. “Open it.”
I slid a finger under the paper, carefully peeling it away. Inside was a chessboard—not a cheap one from the corner store, but a beautiful, polished set with intricately carved pieces.
“It’s gorgeous,” I whispered, swiping at my eyes quickly so he wouldn’t see .
“You play?” he asked, his voice casual, though I could tell he already knew the answer.
“A little,” I admitted.
“Good,” he said, setting up the pieces right there on the stoop. “Because I’m not going easy on you.”
“Maybe I’m better than you think,” I shot back, teasing.
He glanced at me, his gaze soft. “Maybe you are, Anya.”
We played for hours, taking bites of the cake straight out of the box as we moved pieces back and forth across the board. I lost every game, but I didn’t care. He didn’t talk much, but he didn’t have to. Just having him there, spending time with me, paying attention… It was enough.
When the air grew cold, he finally stood, folding the wrapping paper into meticulous little squares. “I have to get home,” he said. “Rafail expected me an hour ago.”
“Hope you’re not in trouble,” I said with a small smile.
He huffed a laugh. “I’m definitely in trouble. But it was worth it.”
For a moment, he stood there, his gaze unreadable. My heart pounded, my breath caught in my throat. Was he going to…kiss me?
I told myself no, of course not. I was just a girl to him.
But then his fingers brushed my jaw, tilting my chin up ever so slightly. My breath caught. His ice-blue eyes searched mine, hesitation flickering in their depths. And then, before I could second-guess it—before my mind could get ahead of my body—he kissed me .
It was brief, more than a question than an answer. His lips barely pressed against mine, lingering for just a heartbeat before he pulled away. His voice was rough when he spoke.
“Happy birthday, Anya.”
And then he was gone.
Before he came, I wanted a book, a gift, attention… now I wanted so much more.
After he left, I sat there for a long time, staring at the chessboard and the remaining cake. I swiped my finger through the icing, licking it clean.
It was delicious.
My heart felt full, and my eyes burned with tears.
It was the best birthday I’d ever had.
"What did he say?" Yana asks, her eyes twinkling. I roll my eyes. She knows her brother.
Zoya gets a teasing look and holds up her palm. "Listen, I actually don't want details, okay? If he's getting all sexy or flirty or whatever—" She makes a face. "My god. I can’t believe I’m saying that about Semyon. What have you done to my brother?"
The better question is, what has her brother done to me ?
"Well…" I say, trying to think of how to phrase it without te lling her too much. "He definitely has decided opinions about some dresses."
Yana grins. "Of course he does. So, the red one with the underboob, it is?"
“Yeah, I don't think so." I can’t help but smile. What I don’t tell them is that I have a feeling that if I wore that one out in public, my ass would match the shade of that dress.
Is that a bad thing?
"I'm so glad he married you," Yana says quietly. “You’re such a perfect fit for our family, Anya.” She smiles. “Not many people knew what my family went through. You do. And you've been nothing but supportive. Thank you." She leans forward and gives me a kiss on my cheek.
My chest tightens. “Of course, yeah."
I miss Eli.
I miss my mom.
I don't miss my dad because he destroyed everything that was good between us, but I miss who he was before.
But even when my family was intact, I didn’t have sisters.
And now I do.
"I think we should get these for Stefan," Zoya says with a grin, pointing to a box of remote-controlled cars. I’m grateful for the change of subject before I bawl like a baby. I might be a little high-strung. “Please, this would be so perfect. I can just see them racing around Semyon’s perfect house. ”
“Or these,” Yana says, picking up a box of blocks with shapes that look like castles and dragons. “He loves building things. Imagine the look on his face building his own fortress.”
My throat gets a little scratchy, and I look away, nodding because changing the subject didn’t help. I’m afraid if I talk right now, I'm going to blubber all over both of them.
I’m not the only one who cares about my baby brother anymore.
Yana flips through clothes on hangers, not meeting my eyes. “You know that Semyon isn’t… He has some challenges, Anya. You know that, don't you?"
I nod slowly.
"It doesn't mean he isn't as feeling as the rest of us," Yana says. "He just doesn't always know how to express that."
"I know. He tries so hard, doesn't he?" I’ve watched him. I know he catalogs everything like a scientist, that it takes him time to process reactions of emotions. But I love that he tries so damn hard.
"Of course. And I love that you know that about him.” Yana grins. “Do you know the day he married you, I told him off?"
"Did you?"
"Yes. I told him not to treat you like a chess piece in his game. And I meant every word I said." Yana sweeps all of our purchases into her arms and heads to the front register. "Rafail will pay for this," she says with a wink.
I nod, thankful. “What did he say? "
She laughs out loud. "Well, at the time? He said it wasn’t personal.” She snorts. “Don't get me wrong, he can be a jerk."
"Who can?”
Semyon stands behind us, hands on hips. My heart melts a little. He's so handsome, so protective, all scowling and Superman-like. The girl who was waiting on us gets all flustered when he folds his arms, revealing his muscular forearms.
"Maybe you shouldn’t eavesdrop on our conversation because it has nothing to do with you," Yana says.
"Yeah," Zoya adds, but she flushes bright pink when he gives her a stern look.
"Maybe what you have to say to my wife has everything to do with me." But I can’t tell if his eyes behind his glasses are twinkling. "Anya, I'm going to have the girls take these packages home. You and I have work to do with the bakery."
He leans in and kisses my cheek, lacing his fingers through mine. Zoya gawks. Yana grins.
When I look outside, I notice that a car idles by the curb, purring softly.
I wave. “Bye, girls.”
They wave and watch as I walk hand-in-hand with him. I'm well aware of the eyes of all the people around us. Zalivka is a small, working class city outside of Moscow. Everyone knows who the Kopolov family is. That means they know who I am too .
"I finished running the financials for your business," Semyon says as he opens the car door for me. By now, I know not to even reach for it. "I'm pretty confident that we can bring it back in the black, but you're going to have to make some changes.”
He talks on and on about numbers, distribution, and industrial machinery, but all I can think about is making sure that my mom's special place—that she created with her own two hands—doesn't go down.
I nod, processing.
He slides into the driver's seat, shuts the door, and begins to drive toward the bakery.
“Listen, Semyon, I understand all this, but I need to make sure this does not become an industrial production company, no matter how much money it makes. This matters to me. I want to keep it small."
"We will," he promises.
“But let’s be honest. You wanted this location. You wanted me because you want access to the bakery."
Something tugs at my chest, an uneasy feeling I can’t quite place.
"We will honor what your mother started, Anya," he promises. "You have my word.”
I didn't expect this rush of emotion when I got here. God, I’m a mess today. The memory of Semyon bringing me my first birthday cake, my mother elbow-deep in a bowl of bread flour, Eli snatching a cookie off a sheet so hot it burned his fingers—it all hits me with the force of a tornado, and I shove it down. We're here for a reason.
Semyon gives a quick, assessing look around the place.
"You need new appliances. Those are shit." I stare at the appliances my mother scraped for. He goes on as if he didn’t just punch me in the gut. "New flooring, new countertops. New fucking everything. No wonder you aren’t selling that well."
"Hey." My hands are anchored on my hips, but he misses it because he's already in the freezer.
"And this is a fucking hazard. Goddamn it, Anya, if you or Stefan got stuck in here…”
I ignore him, heat rising in my chest. I remember what Zoya and Yana told me: He doesn't understand the impact his words have on others. He needs to be told. I get this, but still…
"You said we're opening our doors at regular time tomorrow, right?" I ask him.
"Yes," he says from the depths of the pantry. “God, this is a safety hazard too.”
He steps out, holding a massive bag of sugar balanced on one shoulder and a tray of baking supplies in his hand. “Who stacked fifty-pound bags on top of each other like that?” He sets the sugar down with a thud, pulling a massive jar of cinnamon teetering on the edge of collapse. “And why is this on top of the bags? One wrong move, and this is going up in a cloud, and do you know you could actually choke on cinnamon? ”
He narrows his eyes as he nudges a half-open container with his foot. “Seriously, you could lose a limb back there.”
He doesn't know what he's saying , I remind myself. He doesn't understand that I’m taking this personally, and I am taking every damn word personally. I remind myself again. I put my hair up in a messy bun and tie on an apron, and by the time he returns to me, I am elbow-deep in flour.
"What the hell are you doing, Anya?"
"You just told me we're opening in the morning," I tell him. "Obviously, if we're opening in the morning, I need to have some things proofed for baking. And I have to get here before the sun rises; you know that, right?"
“Not if I tell you no, you won't," he snaps, stepping into my space. The two of us are at such opposing ends right now—me, flustered and flour-covered, and him, looking as if he just stepped out of a men's fashion catalog. He's gorgeous and cold, and I want to throw this dough and muss his perfect hair.
"So this is how you’ll play it? You’ll be nice for a couple of days, a couple of weeks, and then all of a sudden, you’re just going to snap and try controlling me?" I blow out a breath. “I am not a pawn in one of your chess games, Semyon! You can’t just toss me aside before someone else calls checkmate. You should know that."
He stops. Stares as if baffled. Does he really have no idea how I’d feel about him storming in here and critiquing my bakery, the one I’ve kept together by the skin of my teeth? “What the fuck are you talking about? ”
I look at him, incredulous, trying to remind myself that he doesn’t understand—but he's a grown adult. He should know exactly what's up.
"You heard me. I said I'm not one of your pawns.” Even as I say it, a part of me wishes he’d push back because I want to feel him. I want him pushing me against the wall and taking control back. I want his hand around my throat, a reminder of what he can do to me. I want all of it, and I don't understand why I want so many conflicting things at once.
He's too close to me. There's a magnetic pull drawing the two of us together, one I can’t resist any more than he can.
"Is that right?" he says, hands on hips. "You want me to leave you alone, stop controlling things? You want me to walk out and leave you to this, don't you? Tell me, Anya. How’d that work for you before?”
My cheeks flush pink as I press my lips into a thin line.
“Tell me to walk away, and I’ll leave you right here to do whatever the hell you need to do with that fucking bread."
He can’t hide the scorn in his voice, and I can’t hide the heat rising in my chest.
"I thought you liked it when I took control," he says with a smug smirk that makes me want to smack him.
"Not with everything." I can’t remove the petulant tone in my voice, but he should know this. I don’t care if he needs people to explain things to him. This is basic common decency. This was my family home. My mother started this.
"Makes perfect sense," he says with chilling precision. "Run the bakery into the ground. Go out of business. That’s an excellent way to honor your mother."
Oh the arrogance. Before I know what I’m doing, I do exactly what I imagined—I fling the bread dough straight at his beautiful face. I hit dead center with an accuracy that makes my heart flip in my chest. Bull's-eye.
Semyon watches the dough that falls to the floor with a plop before he bends to pick it up. He tosses it in the garbage and then washes his hands slowly while my heart beats a frantic rhythm in my chest, and I pretend that I didn’t just throw food in his face like a child.
"Do you think your stubborn pride is going to save you?" he asks, his eyes flashing blue fire at me. "You’d rather close the doors of the bakery than admit you need help, wouldn’t you?"
He prowls closer to me. I stand my ground as my heart rate skyrockets. I cling to my apron, my fingers grasping at the edges as if, somehow, this thin piece of fabric is going to save me from him.
Nothing will save me from him. Not my pride. Not my family. Not my sharp tongue or wit. Nothing .
He takes a step forward, boxing me in against the worktable.
"Maybe I wouldn’t have to if you didn’t trap me in." The petulance in my tone has softened, but I’m still restless, still simmering with anger. Yet deep down, I can’t deny it—he’s right. I do like it when he takes control. I’ve been holding onto control for so damn long, clinging to it like a buoy.
But now… it’s getting fucking heavy .
"It's not my control you hate,” he says with such quiet conviction it almost shakes me. “You're scared, Anya. Just admit it."
I shove him, my palms pressing hard on either side of his broad shoulders. It’s meant to say no, to push him away, but he doesn’t budge an inch. His eyes darken as his strong fingers wrap around my wrists like steel cuffs. Before I can process it, he spins me, my back hitting the cold steel door of the freezer. My breath catches.
I stay still, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of knowing what he does to me. But when his mouth finds my neck and kisses down to my collarbone, his teeth sinking into sensitive skin, I shiver. It’s punishing, a reminder of how easily he can overpower me.
Flour dusts our clothes as we give in to each other. He kisses me, and I'm kissing him back—angry and on fire—but a part of me admits I can’t do this alone. I don’t want to. I know he’s right.
"You might have a point, even if you're an asshole about it," I admit through clenched teeth.
"And you might have a point, even though you're a brat.” He tugs my hair and grips my ass hard before he lifts me, turns, and slides me onto the steel top of the worktable. I lose myself to him. I’m tugging on his shirt, eager to put my palms on the hard planes of his stomach as he’s unfastening and pushing down my pants.
“Leave the apron," he says in a low whisper. "I want the vision of your legs spread for me, your head tipped back while you come, every time I step foot in this fucking bakery. "
My cheeks heat, and I smirk at him.
"That's so fucking dirty."
He lifts a shoulder.
“And?”
I shiver when his fingers tighten around my hips, planting me in place.
"You like it dirty, Anya. You just don't wanna admit it yet."
I’m half-tempted to push him away, to slap him, but the truth is I'm already soaking wet, aching for him. His hands slide up my hips, rough and deliberate, pushing my apron higher until it's bunched around my waist. Cool air meets my skin.
I arch my back, pushing against him. He groans low in his throat, a sound that goes straight between my legs, then cups my pussy with the heel of his palm, pressing to where I ache for him. I meet his gaze. This time, I don't look away from his ice-blue eyes.
"You still think you're in control?" He presses his palm harder, circling. I bite back a moan, aching for more.
"Maybe I am." I don't even recognize my voice. It's so low, so seductive.
Now he's moving again, trailing kisses and bites along my jawline, his stubble rasping against my skin. He shoves aside my panties, sliding his fingers into my wet cunt. I bite back a gasp. He doesn't rush—he's teasing me, ever the strategist, driving me insane. He knows just what moves to make .
"I want you begging," he whispers darkly. "By the time I'm finished with you, you'll forget you ever wanted control, Anya.”
His fingers dip beneath the fabric, and I cry out softly, clutching his shoulders as he swirls and strokes. He has me exactly where he wants me. With him, it doesn't feel like weakness. I feel wanted. Powerful.
He shoves his fingers back in my pussy, stroking in and out.
"Fucking hell." I breathe.
His lips curve into a wolfish grin that makes my sex pulse. "You like that, Anya, don't you? Admit it—you like it.”
I plant my hands on the flat of the steel table, spread my legs, and nod, beckoning him closer.
"I fucking love it. I want you, Semyon."
His control breaks. I want to touch him, but I'm holding onto the table for dear life. It gives me a sort of power when he slides between my legs, bringing his fingers to his mouth and licking them clean. Oh my god.
Neither one of us wants to yield, but right now, we're equals, giving and taking. Then his mouth is on mine, devouring, and I lose myself in him. He drags my butt to the edge of the table, keeps my legs spread apart, and unbuckles his belt. I sit up, holding myself upright while I reach for his belt, helping him. We can't move fast enough. I'm afraid if I don't let him take control right now, I might change my mind, and I can't do that. I won't.
It takes both of my hands to take his thick, hot cock from his pants and slide it between my legs. My head falls back at the first slow thrust, the tip of his cock at my center. " Semyon ."
He pushes into me, and this time, it doesn't hurt as much as it did before. This time, it feels so good, so right, as if we're meant to be like this together. I feel like a woman. A full-fledged woman. Not Eli's little sister. Not Semyon’s best friend's sister.
Anya Kopolova.
The walls of my pussy tighten around the thick edges of his cock.
"Tell me you like it," he murmurs in my ear.
I bite my lip, not wanting to give him the satisfaction. He pulls almost all the way out, and I moan, reaching for him, arching toward him. I want him back.
"Tell me you want this," he whispers. "Tell me you fucking want this."
"Fine," I grit out. "I want this. I want you. I want us. I want all of it. Fuck me, Semyon."
"That's my girl," he growls. "That's my good girl."
He shoves into me again, and it feels so fucking right. I swear that when his cock hits the back of my cervix, I feel a full-body shudder. Again, he pulls almost all the way out before he slides back in again and again, building a rhythm with friction that makes me want to scream. My fingers dig into his back—scratching, begging, pleading. It's dirty and fulfilling. All I can think of is how much I want more.
He fucks me until I scream his name, until the walls of my pussy clench, and I come, and he comes inside me, his hot seed spilling. I lean back, sated, my clit still throbbing when he falls to his knees and removes his glasses.
Oh my god. He means business when he slides them off.
My mouth is open in a silent gasp as he drags his tongue, hard and flat, across my clit. It feels so wrong, so dirty.
"Semyon—" My fingers grip the edge of the table, white-knuckled. I’m panting, moaning.
He doesn't stop but eats me out, suckling me, and I’m on the cusp of another orgasm. I come again—harder—crying out, my hands diving into his hair, anchoring myself for support, screaming. Then I slump back on the table, spent and exhausted.
But he's not done yet.
I watch as he gets a wicked grin and walks slowly, fully clothed, to the refrigerator. I’m too drunk to ask what the fuck he’s doing, but I don’t trust that smile.
He opens it and takes out a bottle of whipped cream. Usually I make my own, but we keep this on hand for emergencies. I'm boneless, barely holding myself on the edge of the table, when he comes back over to me.
How is he still walking right now?
He kneels, removes my apron, and cleans me up. I watch him drizzling a line of cream across the top of my thighs. "Dessert time."
He sucks the cream off and licks my clit. I'm so sensitized, having just come, my hips jerk, and I shake my head.
" No . No, too much. "
But then he slows his roll ever so slightly, touching the tip of his tongue to my swollen, sensitive clit. So softly, so gently. And I want more. So much more. I'm drunk on adrenaline and pheromones. All I can think of is more .
He laps at the cream again lazily, hungrily, sucking my clit into his mouth and then pushing me to the edge until I'm swollen, begging, needy.
"Semyon… I can't. I can't!" I scream against the edge of the table. My thighs tremble as the aftershocks ripple through me. I'm so sensitive it feels like every flick of his tongue shoots through me, but he's relentless, taking his time, savoring every inch of me like I'm the most delicious, most decadent dessert he's ever tasted.
"Yes, you can," he says, and I almost believe him because he's so confident, and it feels like he knows fucking everything. "And you will, Anya."
He draws another line of whipped cream along the inside of my other thigh. The cool sensation makes me shiver. The contrast of hot and cold, overwhelming pleasure, mingles. My head falls back. I want so much fucking more. I want him to stop. I don’t want him to stop. I’m confused and eager.
He draws a pattern with the whipped cream—a fucking pattern like a gridlock across my thighs. His eyes meet mine with molten intensity as he lazily drags his tongue across the cream, lapping me up. I stifle a scream when his tongue meets my swollen, sensitive clit again.
"God…" I whisper .
"Good girl," he whispers back, breaking into a wicked grin. "Are you still fighting me?" He chuckles softly.
I shake my head, biting my lip as another climax builds. "I can't do it again. I can't. It's too much."
"Lie to yourself all you want, sweetheart, but your body tells me the truth."
His voice is slow and taunting, full of knowing. He presses a kiss to my other thigh before diving back between my legs. This time, there’s no escape. His mouth is ravenous, hungry, alternating between sucking and soft flicks, keeping me teetering right on the edge. It's building more powerfully than it was before.
My hips grind against his face as my fingers tangle in his hair, yanking him closer to me. I've lost all control, and I don't care. Right now, there's only one thing I want.
He drives me higher and higher until the pressure building inside is unbearable.
"Please, Semyon," I beg without shame. "Please don't stop."
He hums approvingly against my clit, the vibration sending waves of shock through me, before he adds two fingers, sliding into my slick heat with a rhythm that matches the strokes of his tongue. My whole body clenches as his curled fingers hit the spot that makes me cry out.
"I once read an article about a woman's ability to orgasm," he says quietly against my thigh.
Of course he fucking did.
"The women they tested got to sixty-five before they called it a day," he says with a dark chuckle. "We're nowhere near that, Anya. And the article explained how the women could've kept going."
“Looks like evolution got something right,” I breathe out.
He chuckles, his voice thick with desire. "Come for me, Anya." His tongue flicks again.
My body arches off the table, and I shatter, a scream tearing from my throat. The world tilts, and all I can feel are waves of pleasure. He doesn't stop until I'm sobbing his name.
“God, Semyon…”
I don’t know why I'm crying. It feels like the greatest release and my greatest fears were all wound together in a tight knot, and every time he makes me come, something loosens.
I finally slump against the table, and he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes dark with hunger. I know he's far from finished with me.
"You're not done yet," Semyon says, his voice rough. He pulls me into his arms, lifting me off the table. My legs wobble, and I love the sound of his slow chuckle. "I need you on your knees, Anya."
I drop to the floor, eager to return the pleasure he's given me. He's hard again. I run my hands over his thighs. His body tightens, his control slipping.
“Anya…”
I take him deep and suck, my tongue swirling around the sensitive underside of his thick, veined cock, hard again for round two. He groans, his hands tangling in my hair as he guides my movements. I love the power I have over him— the way his composure looks like it's about to shatter with the next flick of my tongue.
"Fuck," he groans out, his voice ragged. "I'm only gonna come inside you."
I hollow my cheeks and take him deeper until he trembles. Just when I feel him start to lose control, his hips spasm, and he pulls me up, spins me around, and bends me over the worktable. His hands grip me possessively.
"Ready for me again?" he growls in my ear.
“Always.” I pant, pressing my back against him.
With a hard thrust, he fills me, and we both groan at the sensation. Our mutual pleasure is intoxicating. He sets a punishing rhythm, meeting my thrusts and sparking waves of pleasure through me. Now that I've come over and over, I’m slick and wet, and it doesn’t hurt like it did before. I hardly remember when it did. I can take him fully, and I fucking love that.
"Mine," he growls into my ear, biting onto my shoulder as he drives into me.
"Yours," I echo, crying out. My nails claw at the steel table for purchase, finding none.
He reaches around to rub my clit. I’m so ready that I come again, screaming. I’ve lost count of how many times I've come, but as he climaxes inside me again, I spasm around him, pleasure and ecstasy binding into one. He follows me over the edge, his release hot and intense as he spills inside me. We collapse together, breathless and sated.
"If we had more time… "
"Semyon," I say, disbelieving.
"I fucking would," he says. "We have to go to the house, but I'll have you tonight, Anya. I don't want you to forget that you're mine."
How could I forget I'm his?
He bends down and kisses the tender place he bit earlier. "Get dressed, Anya.”
"You're enjoying this."
"Not nearly as much as you are," he teases, pulling me to his chest. "You're mine , Anya. All of you. I own every breath, every orgasm, every fucking heartbeat.” His ice-blue eyes lock into mine, intense and unrelenting. “Do you understand me?”
I swallow, lost in the intensity of his gaze.
“Yes,” I whisper, under his power.
His cum lingers on my skin as he cleans me with the balled-up apron, bends, and inhales my raw, wet pussy. “Mmm,” he says in a low, raw whisper. “Delicious.”
He licks and suckles again. This time, the orgasm comes quickly on the heels of the last. I’m panting, my limbs suffused with fire. My head falls back as I come with a scream. He slowly laps me through the aftershocks of pleasure until I'm done.
"You're so fucking lucky it's ten minutes before six," he says with a growl.
"No! Almost six? Oh my god. I have to get ready. We have to go?— "
"Relax, Anya. I already texted Rafail and told him we'd be a few minutes late."
He stands up, pulls me to my feet, quivering, and gives my ass an affectionate slap. "Get cleaned up. I have some work to finish here, and then you and I are going to dinner."
My eyes meet his. I feel half-drugged. I shake my head and walk to the bathroom when something flashes in my peripheral vision. I turn around and stare.
There’s a… camera. Staring right at me.
I never installed a camera.
“Semyon?”
“Mmm?” He’s reading something on his phone with a scowl.
“When did you put surveillance cameras in here?”
He shakes his head as cold fear trickles down my spine. “I haven’t had time. Not yet.”
“But… look.”
I barely have time to react before the deafening crack of a gunshot fills the room. I scream, my heart slamming against my ribs as shards of glass and twisted metal scatter across the floor. The camera is obliterated, reduced to nothing but broken pieces.
The echo of the shot still lingers as he lowers the gun, fury darkening his features.
“I’ll fucking find out who installed these,” he growls, his voice tight with rage. “ Khristos .” His gaze burns with a cold, lethal focus that makes a shiver skate down my spine .
I stand frozen, torn between fear and awe, at the full weight of his wrath in this small space between us.
“Do you think they saw… what…. Oh god, what we did?”
Of course they did.
His lips press into a thin line. “They’d better play it on repeat because it’ll be the last thing they ever see before I cut their fucking eyes out.”
I close my eyes and stifle a moan. I am in way, way over my head.