Chapter 11 #2
I spit into his palm, and he drags it back to his cock, smearing it over the head, stroking himself slow. His thumb circles the tip before pulling the foreskin down, and pre-cum slips, trailing over his fist and down toward my thighs. One of his hands lands hard on my knee, pinning me there.
I try to sit up. I want him in my mouth so bad, but he presses me flat against the bed.
“Stay down, zaychik.” His voice comes out rough, wrecked. “Open your mouth for me, tongue out. Keep your eyes on me while I come all over that pretty face and make you mine.”
The way he says it steals every thought out of my head.
“Say it,” he growls. “Say you’re mine.”
My throat goes tight. I blink at him and swallow, my chest rising fast. “I’m yours.”
The sound that tears out of him is raw, almost painful.
I stick out my tongue, keep my eyes on him. His body jerks. His cock swells, and then hot streaks spill out of him, hitting my chest, my throat, and my tongue.
He says something in Russian, voice lower now, almost broken.
He presses his mouth onto my skin, licks down my neck, over my chest, cleaning up every drop he left behind on my skin. The way his tongue drags across my ribs makes my entire body jolt. When he finally comes back up, he kisses me hard, making me taste the both of us on his tongue.
He drops beside me and pulls off his jeans and throws them onto the floor. He lies bare against the sheets, eyes fixed on the ceiling.
I glance over at him and let myself really look. His chest is still rising and falling, covered in tattoos all the way down to his stomach. Some are texts in Russian, but most are just scattered pieces, like a patchwork collage burned into his skin. There’s barely an inch of him that isn’t inked.
I follow the trail down his torso, across the ridges of his abs, then lower to his thighs.
His legs are fully covered too, ankles and feet, all of it black ink against pale skin.
My eyes catch on the tattoo over his heart: an eight-point star with skulls shaded through the middle. Out of all of them, this one sticks out the most because he has the same stars on his ring.
There has to be over a hundred tattoos on him, and I can’t wrap my head around the amount of pain that took. How many hours he must’ve sat through getting them, how long he’s been collecting all that ink like armor.
He glances at me. “See something you like?”
I blink, caught staring. “Why do you have so many tattoos?”
He’s like a literal work of art next to me with his abs and all the tattoos and muscles.
And then there’s me. I have no tattoos, no defined muscles, kind of skinny, just nothing special about my appearance.
I’ve never really cared before, but right now it hits different, lying here naked next to him, letting him see all of me. Insecurity sinks into my chest. He could be with anyone he wanted, and somehow, he’s here with me. It doesn’t make sense.
“I was bored,” he finally says.
“You were bored so you tattooed your entire body?” I scrunch my nose. “Doesn’t it hurt?”
“Nyet. It’s like meditation. Pain feels good.”
So he’s a slightly insane Russian masochist then. Got it.
He shifts onto his side and looks straight at me, his hand coming up to my chin slowly, lifting it just enough so I meet his gaze directly.
I brush my thumb over the tattoo under his eye. Верность в молчании. Cyrillic letters I can’t read.
“What does this mean?”
“It means true loyalty doesn’t need words. Family motto. We all have it tattooed somewhere. A reminder of what we are. What we owe.”
I nod, trying to wrap my head around it.
“Kelly.”
The way he says my name sounds like he’s about to tell me this was a mistake.
“Do you remember what I told you at the club? That my family owns it and that the truth is always much worse.”
“Yes.”
He swallows hard. “You’re mine,” he says. “But my family has rules. If my father discovers I’m with a man, I won’t survive it. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
I nod, suddenly parched.
“I’ve never been with a man before. Not until you, and now you’re mine, zaychik. I’m not letting you go.”
My breath catches in my throat.
“We need to watch ourselves. In your country, you can love whoever you want without consequences. But my family? My culture? It’s different.”
“You mean, mafia families?”
“You don’t understand what the Avrorin name means.
My family created the Russian underworld.
We didn’t join it, we built it from the ground up.
Every rule, every system, every network from Moscow to New York exists because we made it that way.
Generations of absolute power and control.
Mafia is what people call organizations with someone above them.
We answer to no one. We are the authority everyone else fears. ”
So mafia. I freaking knew it.
Except apparently, they’re the mafia that other mafias are scared of. Cool. Great. But he’s not answering the actual question.
“What does being with a man have to do with any of that?”
He sighs, then glances down my neck. “Because it’s old blood and old rules passed down for generations.”
I clear my throat. “They were probably made by men who were choking on cock behind closed doors and didn’t want anyone else getting the same idea.”
He smiles, and it hits me then that I’ve never seen him smile before. It is beautiful, transforms his entire face from cold and dangerous to something almost soft.
We end up spending the rest of the day curled up in bed after washing ourselves.
After we both get off again, slower this time, lazy and drawn out, we’re completely wrecked. Everything catches up at once, and we’re both passed out before eight, still wrapped around each other.