Chapter 4 Jemma
Jemma
Iwake up sore, thoroughly claimed, and wrapped in a Russian mobster's arms.
Every muscle aches. Especially between my legs. Last night was intense. He took my virginity, and he didn't hold back. Even now, I can feel the reminder of it—the pleasant ache, the slight burn, the feeling of being completely and utterly used.
This is my life now, apparently.
Konstantin is still asleep, his breathing deep and even. One arm is locked around my waist, his hands splayed possessively over my stomach. Both hands. Like even in sleep, he's thinking about putting a baby there.
He took my virginity last night and immediately started talking about breeding me.
The scary part? I liked it.
No. I loved it.
What is wrong with me?
I know exactly what's wrong with me. I've spent years reading dark romance novels where the dangerous, obsessive hero claims the heroine completely. Takes her virginity. Breeds her. Keeps her. And I always thought "that's so unrealistic, no one would actually want that."
Turns out I'm that no one.
"Stop overthinking." His voice is rough with sleep.
"How do you know I'm overthinking?"
"Because you went tense." He nuzzles into my neck. "What's going through that pretty head?"
"I'm trying to figure out if I need therapy or if I'm just finally being honest with myself."
He huffs a laugh against my skin. "About?"
"About the fact that I liked it. All of it. The claiming. The breeding talk. The possessiveness." I turn my head to look at him. "You took my virginity and immediately told me you were going to get me pregnant. And I came so hard I saw stars."
His eyes go dark. "You did."
"So either I'm broken or—"
"Or you finally found someone who matches your freak." He rolls me onto my back, settling between my legs. "There's nothing wrong with wanting what you want, Jemma. With liking intensity and possession and being claimed."
"Society would disagree."
"Fuck society. I'm not asking society to understand us. I'm asking you: do you want this? Do you want me?"
I look up at him—this dangerous, beautiful man who's been obsessed with me for almost a year. Who kidnapped me. Who took my virginity roughly and possessively and made me love every second of it.
"Yes," I whisper. "I want this. I want you. Even though it's insane."
"It's not insane. It's just us." His hand slides between my legs. I'm still sensitive from last night and when his fingers find my clit, I gasp. "Your body knows what it wants, even if your mind is still catching up."
"Konstantin—we should—your family is probably—I'm sore—"
"I know you're sore. I can feel how swollen you are." His fingers are soft, careful, circling my clit gently. "But I'm going to make it good for you anyway. You gave me your virginity last night. Your first time. Let me take care of you properly this morning."
"You weren't exactly gentle last night."
"You told me not to be." He kisses my shoulder, my neck. "But this morning I'll worship you. Show you what it's like when I make love to you instead of just fucking you."
His words make my stomach flip. "There's a difference?"
"Oh, devochka. There's a world of difference." He shifts, positioning himself between my thighs. His cock is already hard, pressing against my entrance. "Last night was about claiming. This morning is about cherishing."
He pushes inside slowly. So slowly. I wince but the stretch feels good too. Different than last night. Gentler but no less intense.
"Okay?" he asks, pausing when he's halfway in.
"Yeah. Keep going. I want to feel all of you."
He slides the rest of the way in with one smooth stroke.
"Fuck, you're still so tight," he breathes. "Even after last night. Your pussy is gripping me like it doesn't want to let go."
"I don't want to let go."
"Good. Because I'm never leaving." He starts moving, slow and deep. Not the hard claiming thrusts from last night. This is different. Intimate. "How does it feel?"
"Full. Sore. Perfect." I wrap my legs around his waist. "More."
"Greedy girl." But he's smiling as he says it. "Your virgin pussy got a taste of cock last night and now it's addicted."
"Maybe I am."
"Definitely you are." He picks up the pace slightly, still careful but more purposeful. "You're going to wake up wanting my cock inside you every morning. Going to sleep with it too. I'm going to keep you so well-fucked you won't remember what it's like to be empty."
His words combined with the steady rhythm of his thrusts are pushing me toward the edge faster than I expected.
"I'm close," I gasp.
"Already? Fuck, you're perfect." He reaches between us, finds my clit. "Come for me, beautiful. Let me feel your pussy milk my cock."
The combination of his fingers and his cock hitting that perfect spot inside me sends me over. I come with a cry, my sore pussy clenching around him.
He follows right after, burying himself deep and filling me with another load of cum. He groans against my neck as he grinds his hips, making sure every drop stays deep.
We lie there for a moment, still connected. Then there's a knock on the door that makes us both jump.
"Kostenka! Devochka! Breakfast in twenty minutes!" Yelena's voice is way too cheerful for whatever ungodly hour this is. "Don't be late!"
Konstantin drops his forehead to my shoulder with a sigh. "My mother's timing is impeccable."
"We really need to get up now."
"I know." But he doesn't pull out immediately. Instead, he stays buried inside me for another minute, like he can't bear to break the connection. "Tonight," he promises. "Tonight I'm going to take my time with you. Make you come so many times you lose count."
My inner muscles clench around him at the thought. He hisses.
"Keep doing that and we're not making it to breakfast."
"Your mother will hunt us down."
"True." Finally, reluctantly, he pulls out. I feel the immediate loss, followed by the sensation of his cum starting to leak out.
He pushes the cum back in, and then brings his fingers to my mouth. "Taste us."
I shouldn't. It's dirty and wrong and I open my mouth. Let him slide his fingers inside. Taste the mixture of him and me together.
"Fuck. You're going to be the death of me." He kisses me hard, tasting himself on my tongue. "Come on. Shower. Before my mother breaks down the door."
***
The kitchen is pure chaos.
Yelena is at the stove cooking what looks like enough food to feed an army. Dimitri is at the table with coffee and a newspaper. Anya is cutting fruit. Natasha is sitting on the counter eating a cookie for breakfast. There are other people too, cousins and relatives whose names I don't remember.
The smell of eggs and coffee fills the air. Christmas music plays softly. Sunlight streams through the windows, making the snow outside sparkle.
It's perfect. Like a Christmas movie.
Except this is the Russian mafia, and I'm here because I was kidnapped.
The conversation stops when we walk in.
"FINALLY!" Yelena abandons the stove and pulls me into a hug. "I think maybe you sleep through breakfast! Come, come, sit! You must be hungry!"
She's not wrong. I'm starving.
Konstantin pulls out a chair for me, then sits beside me close enough that our thighs touch. Yelena immediately starts piling food onto my plate—blini that smell like heaven, eggs, sausage, fruit.
"Eat, eat! You are skinny! My Kostya needs to feed you better!"
"Mama, she's perfect," Konstantin says.
"She IS perfect! This is why she needs good food! To stay perfect!" Yelena beams at me. "You sleep well, devochka?"
I choke on my coffee. Konstantin's hand finds my thigh under the table, squeezing.
"Very well, thank you," I manage.
Dimitri raises his coffee mug at Konstantin with a knowing smirk. Anya rolls her eyes but she's smiling too.
"So!" Yelena sits down with her own plate. "Today we decorate tree! Is tradition—everyone helps, we drink cocoa, we make beautiful!"
"It's actually really fun," Anya tells me. "Even though Yelena has very specific opinions about ornament placement."
"Is not opinions! Is art! Is proper way!"
"It's dictatorship," Dimitri mutters.
"I HEAR YOU!"
Everyone laughs. The conversation flows around me—warm and chaotic and overwhelming in the best way. People ask me questions about where I'm from, what I do, how I met Konstantin. I stick to the sanitized version.
After breakfast, everyone migrates to the living room. The Christmas tree is massive—easily twelve feet tall, standing in front of floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the snowy grounds. It's already strung with lights but not yet decorated. There are boxes of ornaments everywhere.
"Okay!" Yelena claps her hands. "Jemma, you help Natasha with the bottom branches, yes? And Kostya, you are tall, you do the top!"
For the next hour, I decorate a Christmas tree with the Russian mafia.
Natasha insists on showing me every single ornament and telling me its story. There are handmade ones from when Dimitri and Konstantin were kids—crooked stars and painted pinecones. Delicate glass ones from Russia that must be a hundred years old. Modern ones the current kids made.
"This one is from when Papa was five," Natasha says, holding up a lumpy clay ornament. "Babushka says he made it in school and she kept it forever."
"It's beautiful," I tell her honestly.
"It's ugly," Dimitri calls from across the room. "But my mama wouldn’t let me throw it away."
"BECAUSE IT IS FROM YOUR HEART!" Yelena yells back. "And you were FIVE! Of course is ugly! But is yours!"
Konstantin keeps finding excuses to stand near me. Helping me reach a branch. Steadying me when I wobble. His hands on my waist, my shoulders, the small of my back. Touching me constantly.
"You're not subtle," I whisper when we're close.
"I don't want to be subtle. I want everyone to know you're mine."
"They already think that. It's why we're here."
"Good." He presses a kiss to my temple. "Then my work is done."
Natasha tugs on my hand. "Miss Jemma! Look at this one! Uncle Kostya made it when he was my age!"